redneck riviera or "You punched me in the face, Kyle."

it has been almost nine years since I last visited the state of Florida. after two weeks of wonder, I'm glad to see that nothing much has changed down in the panhandle. my time here during the summer of 2003 inspired me to begin blogging before blogging even existed.

i was a waitress working the day shift at The Reef, a combination biker bar and fish restaurant, where, because I had no children at the geriatric age of 23, the others asked if I was barren. where the "fresh coconut shrimp" was frozen and the cocktail sauce was often stirred up in a five-gallon bucket by the busboy, using his bare arm. where Linda, the chain-smoking bartender told stories about her 10 children - one in jail for grand theft auto, one a fry cook at Hog Heaven (a BBQ joint down the beach), one pregnant, one in the marching band, one in diapers...and it went on.

but it wasn't just the reef - it was the stock car races where beer came in buckets, the greyhound track where t-shirts read things like "How 'bout a nice warm glass of shutcha mouth," and the everyplace where no respectable mullet was shorter than shoulder length. the long days on the beach, the long nights at the Flora-Bama, and the idea that paradise means something different to everyone, and everyone can find his paradise, were inspiring and hilarious from my Oregon perspective. i began sending choice emails to friends and family chronicling my time here - primitive blogs.

well, i'm back, and here is my choice email after two weeks of sunny Panama City Beach:

Day 1: I don't give a shit if you're driving straight-through, 26 hours from Maine with your "Disneyworld or Bust" finger paintings all over every window of your damn Dodge Caravan, please move the f*ck OVER on the I-95 when you see me coming up behind you. There are two lanes for a reason - not fast and slow as people think - but passing and cruising. I'm passing. You're just an asshole.

Day 2: With 669 miles of sandy beaches in the state, why is Henry only legally allowed on 669 feet of them? Seriously, my dog is cleaner than half of the cigarette flicking Alabama tourists, and I follow him around with an arsenal of plastic bags to scoop his poo. He doesn't swim much, and he can't catch any wildlife unless it's almost dead (or already dead, as we'll find out tomorrow). He's harmless, so get us some bigger dog beaches, Florida. Or ban the other animals, too.

Day 3: When Henry disappears behind a large dumpster near the ocean, bad things are probably going to happen approximately three hours later. Bad, smelly, horrible things on the hotel room couch. (Unrelated side note: Try Marco's Pizza, it's delicious.)



Day 4: Pregnant people lying on sunny, sandy beaches are sad when their husbands are doing the same, but the husbands are enjoying ice-cold Corona.

Day 5: I'm starting to doubt people who favor dogs over cats. Lizzie slept the entire 12 hour car journey not begging me for a walk, using a designated toilet area, avoiding getting wet and rolling in sand, and tossing her cookies in our 150-square-foot hotel room exactly zero times to Henrys' three. Lesson: Sharing a hotel room with your cat is decidedly less stinky and sandy than sharing it with your canine. (Unrelated side note: Try Sweet Racks, it's delicious.)

Day 6:

The scene - 10 p.m. in a crowded La Quinta parking lot, cicadas buzzing in the jungle nearby. Man 1, sitting on prone Man 2's chest on the asphalt. Man 3 nearby with can of beer. Two women, southern accents, yelling. Two pit bull dogs. Drunkenness is obvious.

Man 1: "You punched me in the face, Kyle."

Man 2 (Kyle): "You're sitting on me."

All people: Expletives

Man 1: "All this over a damn girl!"

Action: Kyle, struggles to get up. Women outraged. Dogs passive and bored.

Enter stage left: Bay County Sheriff cruiser.

All people: Expletives.

Exit stage left: Me

Fin 

Day 7: I am dangerously close to failing the prescribed one-pound-per-week weight gain recommended by the M.D. Missing: Vegetables. Oh, there they are! In the deep-fat fryer.

Day 8: Nine summers ago, Dan took me on a lazy-float canoe adventure on the Blackwater River. Halfway downstream, we moored on a sandy beach for a romantic picnic where he presented me with a diamond ring and an invitation to be his person forever. As I accepted enthusiastically, our celebration was punctuated by the almost immediate opening of the heavens in a torrential, violent Florida downpour. Between the lightning and the thunder, I asked, "Is this a sign?" Almost a decade later, I believe it certainly was a sign. (Insert appropriate song lyric/sentimental quote re: weathering storms and/or metaphor re: life as river, here).


Day 9: I recently noticed that we've been packing around some of the same old junk for nearly a decade. Things we acquired in Florida '02 that we are using on our vay-stay-cay in '12 - two beach towels, one Coleman water jug, one Coleman wheelie cooler, two University of Florida jersey coozies. Some cheap junk is actually built to last.

Day 10: I love the word "housekeeping" when it refers to someone else doing it.

Day 11: Florida fact - If you order ice cream sundaes and eat them while walking, the net calorie gain is zero. The pace and distance of the walk is irrelevant.

Day 12: I have never visited the ocean without somehow returning home with a new collection of seashells. Note: I don't collect seashells; I don't "collect," in general. I will, however, diligently protect and display Dan's treasure and try really, really hard not to "accidentally" misplace or crush any of them.

Day 13: We decided to end our summer vacation with a final glorious day on the nearly empty stretch of dog-friendly beach that we discovered mid-stay. During our three-hours in the sand and surf there were three torrential downpours, one dog that insisted on drinking stagnant tidal pool salt water and then swimming in it, and a vicious and day-ending attack of biting flies. Best laid plans.

Day 14: Please add Savannah, Georgia, to the "places I would rather live" list.