Show me the way to go home...
Got up to about 73 today in Orlando. No snow. However, when they speak of impending frost caused by an incoming cold front, the local news feels the need to show a small graphic of a house buried in snow. Anyone familiar with Central Florida or the Weather Channel should certainly know that no house in Central Florida will ever be covered in snow (an assumption barring unforeseen cataclysms that would change known weather patterns). That said, why show a picture of a house covered in snow when the worst Florida will see is an ashen windshield and sugar-tipped blades of grass?
Anyway, the word of the day is chore. I woke up at around 9:30 this morning informed that the cleaning lady would be arriving anytime soon and I should move thy ass. The motivated ass plunges into a warm shower and emerges clean and soft, renewed. If you've never known the pleasure of a water softener, do thyself a favor and experience the softness! The body feels moist for the rest of the day, perfectly damp, sprite and alive with energy. I figured the whole thing to be hooey when I first heard of this machine that "softens" water but I must admit that feeling is believing! Even the coffee tastes better! I digress. (I also feel that the whole "But, I digress," thing is overused and I hold J.D. Salinger to blame.)
A perfectly satisfactory question to ask is why two retirees employ a cleaning lady. I revel in the puzzle.
Anyway, I'm out of the shower and a demon got into my body and said "shave." Demons usually make hand gestures at me, but today, they spoke and I figured I would do well to heed their demand. Mission accomplished, clean, water softened face. I come out to the kitchen table to find out that today we are venturing to see my godparents. This plan had been formulated a few days earlier but I did not hear of it again until a half hour before we left. It factored down to a lunch meeting in between our houses in Melbourne, FL, about an hour drive. The conditions were not ideal for my planned trip into the hate machine known as the Seminole County Flea Market where I hoped to spot lots of KKK and other factional racist propaganda. Such is the joy of the south. Mullet jokes pale in comparison to being immersed in good old fashioned hate. Fucking scumbags. Of course, I also wanted to see what seemingly illegal animals were being traded this week and see if I could snag the holy grail out of a twenty-five cent LP bin. No, no, we're off to see the Irish wizard, my godfather and father's cousin, Tom. He's a great guy and so is my godmother Ann, but, honestly, I really didn't want to see them today. Before I knew it, the last piss call rang out and we embarked into the river styx, also known as the Florida interstate system.
I cannot express in words how incapable Florida drivers are. The "old folk" instinct, while validated by the number of older drivers on the road, turns out to be wrong. The problem is not old people, the problem is "assholes." We all know these assholes. These assholes do the whole speed up to the guys back end and then try to pass him on the right and proceed to cut you off within the one car length of available roadway between yourself in the left hand lane and the Truck Driver in Training slightly ahead of you, on your diagonal, in the right hand lane. The problem is epidemic in Florida. Add to the fact that my father has these "assholish" tendencies while driving and you're in for a scary trip. Anyway, after a series of highways and near misses, we get to the sign that says "Wickham Rd. 3 Miles Ahead." At this point, all I can think of is Bill Farside and I'm on fucking vacation. "I try to get away but they keep pulling me back in," I'm no Al Pacino and I likely butchered that line, but it's sentiment, not semantics that count.
So, we pass the Wickham Rd. exit and continue to drive for another twenty minutes past that exit. An agitated driver is not a good driver, therefore a bad agitated driver is a worse driver, quite possibly the worst possible driver. We twisted about through traffic, through pernicious escapes and realize that we should get off the highway and turn around because we've certainly traveled three miles and did not see the Wickham Rd. exit. I had a feeling in my gut that Wickham was the poorly marked Exit 73 we passed about three miles after seeing the sign. So, we get off at Exit 71 and turn around and get off at Exit 72 to ask where Wickham be. Exit 73. Back on the highway, northbound, the sign clearly says Wickham Road. The Southbound highway bears no such indicator. I'm still thinking of Bill Farside at this point, wondering what the sun would do to his paleness in this climate. Would he tan? Perhaps we'll never know. I can't say much anyway, I'm as white as they come.
We get to the goddamn restaurant, located at a country club of course, because my parents are golf crazy, and meet our relatives forty-five minutes late. The $64,000 question posed by my mother every time we eat: "Do you think they'll have anything for vegetarians at this place?" I tell her that the answer is always yes and that I can make do just fine and inform her that vegetarians are not a sub-species of a more powerful, carnivorous human race and that we can dine together in the very same place! Needless to say, the information did not astonish her. So, we sit down and first thing she says, as if pouring out the cereal box to find the prize, "Ooh looky, they have a veggie burger on the menu!" Well hot shit! Maybe there's a chance at world peace! She's well intentioned and I'm an asshole. Of course, as I order a coffee she asks me if I'd like a celebratory beer instead. First of all, I hardly think a reunion with my godparents is cause celebre, and secondly, I don't drink and she knows that I don't drink so why would she ask? Perhaps she thinks all vegetarians love beer and that's how we fill the void in our tummy, substituting hops for something that once hopped.
I order the veggie burger and visit with relatives. I hate these sort of get togethers because I feel like a movie star on a talk show doing some self-promotion. You know, the questions start flying and you rattle off the prepared answer and improvise a little banter to make it interesting for yourself. The usual bullshit about what I'm doing with my life and of course, whether or not I will go back to school. However, this is all very droll with a buncha "I dunnos" and "Maybes," until my mother says "Tell her about your ambition!" And I reply "What ambition?" rather dryly. To which my mother responds "Exactly. No, tell her what you told me the other day." "Oh yeah," says I, "I want to get a few million dollars and retire right now and never work again." Uproarious laughter ensues because how could someone not want to work! However, my godmother comes into my corner and says "Well, he's right, once you've saved up enough to retire, you can't enjoy it. I say you should retire between the time you're 30 until you're 60 then work after that!" Wisdom surfaces! But, there's always a but, that's just a daydream.
Anyway, I finish my veggie burger, naturally, it's a $6 Gardenburger served with a side of french fries, and it's time to depart. Various tales of retired Floridian life are spun and I watch from the sidelines, waiting to go home for a nap. Finally, it's time to go and we say our goodbyes. It's always nice to visit with my godparents and I must say that this plan worked well because neither side inconvenienced one another's home which usually results in a much longer, more painful visit.
I'm tired and I want to go to bed.
Anyway, the word of the day is chore. I woke up at around 9:30 this morning informed that the cleaning lady would be arriving anytime soon and I should move thy ass. The motivated ass plunges into a warm shower and emerges clean and soft, renewed. If you've never known the pleasure of a water softener, do thyself a favor and experience the softness! The body feels moist for the rest of the day, perfectly damp, sprite and alive with energy. I figured the whole thing to be hooey when I first heard of this machine that "softens" water but I must admit that feeling is believing! Even the coffee tastes better! I digress. (I also feel that the whole "But, I digress," thing is overused and I hold J.D. Salinger to blame.)
A perfectly satisfactory question to ask is why two retirees employ a cleaning lady. I revel in the puzzle.
Anyway, I'm out of the shower and a demon got into my body and said "shave." Demons usually make hand gestures at me, but today, they spoke and I figured I would do well to heed their demand. Mission accomplished, clean, water softened face. I come out to the kitchen table to find out that today we are venturing to see my godparents. This plan had been formulated a few days earlier but I did not hear of it again until a half hour before we left. It factored down to a lunch meeting in between our houses in Melbourne, FL, about an hour drive. The conditions were not ideal for my planned trip into the hate machine known as the Seminole County Flea Market where I hoped to spot lots of KKK and other factional racist propaganda. Such is the joy of the south. Mullet jokes pale in comparison to being immersed in good old fashioned hate. Fucking scumbags. Of course, I also wanted to see what seemingly illegal animals were being traded this week and see if I could snag the holy grail out of a twenty-five cent LP bin. No, no, we're off to see the Irish wizard, my godfather and father's cousin, Tom. He's a great guy and so is my godmother Ann, but, honestly, I really didn't want to see them today. Before I knew it, the last piss call rang out and we embarked into the river styx, also known as the Florida interstate system.
I cannot express in words how incapable Florida drivers are. The "old folk" instinct, while validated by the number of older drivers on the road, turns out to be wrong. The problem is not old people, the problem is "assholes." We all know these assholes. These assholes do the whole speed up to the guys back end and then try to pass him on the right and proceed to cut you off within the one car length of available roadway between yourself in the left hand lane and the Truck Driver in Training slightly ahead of you, on your diagonal, in the right hand lane. The problem is epidemic in Florida. Add to the fact that my father has these "assholish" tendencies while driving and you're in for a scary trip. Anyway, after a series of highways and near misses, we get to the sign that says "Wickham Rd. 3 Miles Ahead." At this point, all I can think of is Bill Farside and I'm on fucking vacation. "I try to get away but they keep pulling me back in," I'm no Al Pacino and I likely butchered that line, but it's sentiment, not semantics that count.
So, we pass the Wickham Rd. exit and continue to drive for another twenty minutes past that exit. An agitated driver is not a good driver, therefore a bad agitated driver is a worse driver, quite possibly the worst possible driver. We twisted about through traffic, through pernicious escapes and realize that we should get off the highway and turn around because we've certainly traveled three miles and did not see the Wickham Rd. exit. I had a feeling in my gut that Wickham was the poorly marked Exit 73 we passed about three miles after seeing the sign. So, we get off at Exit 71 and turn around and get off at Exit 72 to ask where Wickham be. Exit 73. Back on the highway, northbound, the sign clearly says Wickham Road. The Southbound highway bears no such indicator. I'm still thinking of Bill Farside at this point, wondering what the sun would do to his paleness in this climate. Would he tan? Perhaps we'll never know. I can't say much anyway, I'm as white as they come.
We get to the goddamn restaurant, located at a country club of course, because my parents are golf crazy, and meet our relatives forty-five minutes late. The $64,000 question posed by my mother every time we eat: "Do you think they'll have anything for vegetarians at this place?" I tell her that the answer is always yes and that I can make do just fine and inform her that vegetarians are not a sub-species of a more powerful, carnivorous human race and that we can dine together in the very same place! Needless to say, the information did not astonish her. So, we sit down and first thing she says, as if pouring out the cereal box to find the prize, "Ooh looky, they have a veggie burger on the menu!" Well hot shit! Maybe there's a chance at world peace! She's well intentioned and I'm an asshole. Of course, as I order a coffee she asks me if I'd like a celebratory beer instead. First of all, I hardly think a reunion with my godparents is cause celebre, and secondly, I don't drink and she knows that I don't drink so why would she ask? Perhaps she thinks all vegetarians love beer and that's how we fill the void in our tummy, substituting hops for something that once hopped.
I order the veggie burger and visit with relatives. I hate these sort of get togethers because I feel like a movie star on a talk show doing some self-promotion. You know, the questions start flying and you rattle off the prepared answer and improvise a little banter to make it interesting for yourself. The usual bullshit about what I'm doing with my life and of course, whether or not I will go back to school. However, this is all very droll with a buncha "I dunnos" and "Maybes," until my mother says "Tell her about your ambition!" And I reply "What ambition?" rather dryly. To which my mother responds "Exactly. No, tell her what you told me the other day." "Oh yeah," says I, "I want to get a few million dollars and retire right now and never work again." Uproarious laughter ensues because how could someone not want to work! However, my godmother comes into my corner and says "Well, he's right, once you've saved up enough to retire, you can't enjoy it. I say you should retire between the time you're 30 until you're 60 then work after that!" Wisdom surfaces! But, there's always a but, that's just a daydream.
Anyway, I finish my veggie burger, naturally, it's a $6 Gardenburger served with a side of french fries, and it's time to depart. Various tales of retired Floridian life are spun and I watch from the sidelines, waiting to go home for a nap. Finally, it's time to go and we say our goodbyes. It's always nice to visit with my godparents and I must say that this plan worked well because neither side inconvenienced one another's home which usually results in a much longer, more painful visit.
I'm tired and I want to go to bed.