Life among the natives.

Last night we were just thinking about going to bed when one of our immediate neighbors got a bug up his butt (or too much beer in his belly) and decided to test his diesel engines.
Both of them.
Fumes rolled through our boat and after a few minutes Hans was ready to have a talk with him. I asked Hans to just let me handle it and reminded him that Neighbor had promised us another batch of his homemade clam chowder and I really didn't want to mess up a good thing. Neighbor finally shut his engines down and since our cockpit door was still open he hailed me from the dock. He was indeed three sheets to the wind and he came over bearing gifts. I waited until I had the grapefruit and key limes he offered in my greedy little hands before I asked him what the hell he was doing running his engines so late. I can't remember exactly what he said but I told him I didn't care how 'pure' his diesels are, they still stink. I got a happy wave and a "Good night, Sweetheart," in return and Hans said he'd like to know what goes on during the day when he's not here.

Then this morning I woke up earlier than usual when Luvvy BadGirlBadGirl got her daily ass smacking much sooner than normal. With such an early start I've no doubt it wasn't her last one of the day either.

Hans and I love our marina and we're certainly enjoying sunny skies and 70 something temperatures all the while knowing it's gray and cold back home. What we're trying to get used to is adjusting to having one vehicle. I know that sounds spoiled but if Hans takes our one remaining car to work that means Wilbur will not get to the dog park (4 miles away and NO! I am not walking him all the way there) and he will therefore spend his day and unspent energy outsmarting me (not a difficult task I assure you). Since Hans' accident, Wilbur has scarfed down an entire loaf of my homemade banana bread and just yesterday he dug into the bottom of our garbage can and gobbled up the double bagged carcass of a chicken I'd boiled for a homemade batch of chicken soup. I came upon the chicken carnage yesterday after returning from a mere fifteen minute absence. After opening the cockpit door, I was greeted to the sight of shredded plastic bags, garbage, and a guilty pit bull cowering atop of our refrigerator where I've no doubt he was searching for more banana bread.

Digestion can be an exhausting activity.

When I was young I never dreamed I would spend my middle years intently inspecting the output of a pit bull's intestines, but that's exactly how I've spent far too many hours since Wilbur came into our lives.

Wilbur feels quite strongly about the misunderstanding of pit bulls and he demands that all laws banning his beautiful breed come to an end!!

He would probably be taken more seriously if he could just remember his pocket protector.

I'm glad we brought our bikes with us since it's a lot easier and faster for me to get my running around done when Hans has our vehicle. But this also means I'm spending more time out among the local population. A couple of days ago a man hailed me from the parking lot of a medical institution and since he was so insistent, I was stupid enough to stop. He wanted to know if I would like a part time job. I could work from my home. He thought I should know that I'm very attractive ("Nothing personal," he added). He could pay me in cash (he whipped a wad of bills out of his pocket), or he could give me a check (he then tried to impress me with his business acumen by adding that he'd provide me with a 1099 tax form). He certainly hoped he wasn't offending me (something he repeated many times during our bizarre encounter). He also deemed it necessary to fill me in on tidbits of his life; like how when he was a foolish teenager he managed to knock up his girlfriend (now ex wife and current meth addict) and that his daughter only contacts him when she wants money. I squelched the temptation to ask him why he didn't offer this peachy job to them so they could at least earn their money, but my desire to end this impromptu interview was stronger. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and in addition to the thick chain around his neck he wore two watches, one of them a huge gold (no doubt knock off) Rolex, and a ring with about a thousand (fake) diamonds. And gee, only just last week he'd made over two hundred thousand dollars. He also kept roughly bumping into me which really made me nervous and I was glad I was on a main drag of highway. After giving me a generic Wells Fargo business card ("That's where I bank," he stated proudly, and I didn't bother to tell him that here in Florida, it's where everyone banks) with his phone number scribbled on it, he pointed to a condo off yonder. "That's where I'm staying," he told me, but by now I was desperately trying to get away so I wasn't looking. He nudged me again, "I said that's where I'm staying," and then added, "I'm in room 309 but I don't want you bothering me."

I have no idea what the job was (or maybe I do!), but can you believe that I'm not going pursue his exciting offer?

As for Hans; on the days he leaves our vehicle with me, he gets to ride the bus. And riding the bus here is very interesting indeed! It's not quite like Europe where thanks to the cost of fuel (not many can afford to pay $11.00/gallon), public transit is the norm.

For some reason the buses were running way off schedule one night so Hans got to sit in the bus shelter longer than usual and it took him over an hour to make the seven mile transit home. The bus shelter is just as interesting as the bus, and it's a great place to bond with your fellow passengers before boarding. You get to share beer, cigarettes, and stories about your last incarceration. Poor Hans, since he doesn't smoke, he doesn't quite fit in.

I'm going to ride my bike to the beach today (and the beach is a whole different story believe me!), and you can be sure that after I get rid of our garbage and hide the brownies I made last night, I'll be peddling like mad and giving room 309 a very wide berth!