Feuding With Florida
When people invite me to come visit Florida, I immediately bristle. It’s not because I live on the west coast, which is the best coast by far. It’s not because I’m a snooty Californian, even if I am. It’s not even because of the news articles that we see on a regular basis. It’s because we’re at war, Florida and me.
It’s obvious that anyone who invites me to Florida truly hates me and wants to relish in my demise. Perhaps you think I jest, but if humans were equipped with nine lives as cats seemingly are, then I have lost a life with nearly every visit to the Sunshine State.
My very first visit to Florida was harmless. As a matter of fact, I was visiting relatives who had just moved there. The city seemed pleasant enough, and we came when it wasn’t muggy, moldy, or flooded. It was autumn. I stayed in a high rise in downtown Tampa. Close enough to the water that I had a lovely view. Far enough from party places like Ybor City, that I could get a good night’s rest.
Perhaps I did something to anger the gods, or maybe I angered Mother Earth by not planting enough succulents at home. For every subsequent visit has been filled with something. One year, my family visited during hurricane season. Not as terrifying as tornadoes or earthquakes, but we still had to have our bags ready for possible evacuation. The hurricane went another direction and did considerable damage to everything in its path. We were lucky.
Another year, we visited family for Thanksgiving, and our dear host had his appendix rupture the day we arrived. We were lucky that he received good medical care, but we were all very worried, and it was not an enjoyable holiday.
There were visits where I was angry because the ants outside bit my daughter, and the mosquitoes were unrelenting. She’s allergic, and miserable when bitten. There were visits where the company my husband worked for had a hostile takeover threat while we were away, and we worried that these ‘activist’ investors were going to lay everyone off like they had done with other companies featured in the news.
Then there were the visits in which I discovered that I was deathly allergic to something. Always sick, and I worried that our hosts took it personally. One such visit culminated in an emergency room visit and an eventual Epi pen prescription. My tongue and face were swollen, and the doctors separated me from my husband and asked if I was being beaten. After the Epinephrine got into my system, my face began to look normal. The medical staff breathed a sigh of relief, and I wondered quietly to myself how an anaphylactic reaction would look like a domestic violence case. I guess erring on the side of caution is fine, but at the time, as I sat with the medical professionals, I worried that they were profiling my nonwhite family members.
I stayed away for years after. Finally, my family went back to Florida, but it was always with the insistence that we go during the dry season. My doctor would load me up with prescriptions, and I would plan for a day trip somewhere like Disney World for my daughter. Still, Florida would always try to get the last laugh. During my most recent trip, a frog had made its way into the bathroom of the house we were staying at. In the wee hours, I made my way to the bathroom, was washing my face before heading back to the bedroom. As I turned off the faucet, that evil brown frog jumped from under the lip of the sink. It was hoping to land on my face. I dodged it, screamed, woke up the whole house, but that jerk failed to land on my face!
My husband found this whole thing funny, of course. But it was not the end of our little war. Two days later, we found the same frog in the garage. My mother in law tried to help it out into the yard, but seeing me, it jumped again in my general direction. Again, I screeched, and ran from the vicinity. Again, people laughed. But I had the last laugh, because I escaped Florida.
I know someday, I’ll have to return. When I do, I only hope that the allergens stay away, the mosquitoes and ants hibernate, the hurricanes give it a rest, and the frogs steer clear. Because if they don’t, they’ll be sorry.
It’s obvious that anyone who invites me to Florida truly hates me and wants to relish in my demise. Perhaps you think I jest, but if humans were equipped with nine lives as cats seemingly are, then I have lost a life with nearly every visit to the Sunshine State.
My very first visit to Florida was harmless. As a matter of fact, I was visiting relatives who had just moved there. The city seemed pleasant enough, and we came when it wasn’t muggy, moldy, or flooded. It was autumn. I stayed in a high rise in downtown Tampa. Close enough to the water that I had a lovely view. Far enough from party places like Ybor City, that I could get a good night’s rest.
Perhaps I did something to anger the gods, or maybe I angered Mother Earth by not planting enough succulents at home. For every subsequent visit has been filled with something. One year, my family visited during hurricane season. Not as terrifying as tornadoes or earthquakes, but we still had to have our bags ready for possible evacuation. The hurricane went another direction and did considerable damage to everything in its path. We were lucky.
Another year, we visited family for Thanksgiving, and our dear host had his appendix rupture the day we arrived. We were lucky that he received good medical care, but we were all very worried, and it was not an enjoyable holiday.
There were visits where I was angry because the ants outside bit my daughter, and the mosquitoes were unrelenting. She’s allergic, and miserable when bitten. There were visits where the company my husband worked for had a hostile takeover threat while we were away, and we worried that these ‘activist’ investors were going to lay everyone off like they had done with other companies featured in the news.
Then there were the visits in which I discovered that I was deathly allergic to something. Always sick, and I worried that our hosts took it personally. One such visit culminated in an emergency room visit and an eventual Epi pen prescription. My tongue and face were swollen, and the doctors separated me from my husband and asked if I was being beaten. After the Epinephrine got into my system, my face began to look normal. The medical staff breathed a sigh of relief, and I wondered quietly to myself how an anaphylactic reaction would look like a domestic violence case. I guess erring on the side of caution is fine, but at the time, as I sat with the medical professionals, I worried that they were profiling my nonwhite family members.
I stayed away for years after. Finally, my family went back to Florida, but it was always with the insistence that we go during the dry season. My doctor would load me up with prescriptions, and I would plan for a day trip somewhere like Disney World for my daughter. Still, Florida would always try to get the last laugh. During my most recent trip, a frog had made its way into the bathroom of the house we were staying at. In the wee hours, I made my way to the bathroom, was washing my face before heading back to the bedroom. As I turned off the faucet, that evil brown frog jumped from under the lip of the sink. It was hoping to land on my face. I dodged it, screamed, woke up the whole house, but that jerk failed to land on my face!
My husband found this whole thing funny, of course. But it was not the end of our little war. Two days later, we found the same frog in the garage. My mother in law tried to help it out into the yard, but seeing me, it jumped again in my general direction. Again, I screeched, and ran from the vicinity. Again, people laughed. But I had the last laugh, because I escaped Florida.
I know someday, I’ll have to return. When I do, I only hope that the allergens stay away, the mosquitoes and ants hibernate, the hurricanes give it a rest, and the frogs steer clear. Because if they don’t, they’ll be sorry.