We're getting ready for our annual vacation to the great state of Florida (nickname: The Hypertensive State). Besides all the usual preparations of packing, stopping the mail, and telling my son for the 4,528th time that no, he cannot bring home an alligator for a pet, I am honing my driving skills. Mostly that means leaning hard on the horn when some other driver does something idiotic. By the way, I found one fault with a Volkswagen - the horn is not loud enough. I'm going for a big, blaring HONK that says, "Get off the road, you bonehead!" but the VW just emits this friendly little toot that says, "Hi! Would you mind moving over a bit? Thanks! Peace, love and joy!"
Driving in Florida (state motto: "Doris, have you seen my heart medicine?") is a scary task, because so many drivers are like Mrs. Bertha Grashnagel, a neighbor of my in-laws. Mrs. Grashnagel is ninety six years old, deaf as a post, and has shrunken to the height of the average preschooler, so that she cannot see over the dashboard. But does that keep her from driving? Heavens, no! And Florida (state bird: " %&$#@ seagulls!") is full of these tiny aged people behind the wheels of their Cadillacs, so driving amongst them is akin to playing dodge ball, only in cars and at a much slower pace.
So my blog entries are going to be few and far between for the next couple of weeks, but I'm sure I'll have some interesting experiences to write about when I get back from Florida (state flower: seaweed).