Driving down Archer Road in Gainesville many moons ago, John and I noticed a funny sign. On the marquee for Spectrum Optical (as you might guess, an optician's office), there is an ad that says, "Massage-- walk in or call Vicki." And I've never quite understood the connection between the two, erm, businesses. Is the optician merely a front for a call girl operation? Do you go in a back door to meet Vicki? It's unclear.

There are a lot of a few things that I like to think that I'm fairly good at. One is keeping myself informed of current events. This involves, at minimum, a quick scan of news headlines on a select list of reputable newspapers that are accessible online as well as news blogs. Having just finished reading an op-ed, I'm happy to pass along this sage wisdom: "In closing, I would like to point out that if President Bush spent even half his time taking naked pictures of his wife instead of doing all that other crap he's been up to since he's been in office, this country (and a bunch of other ones too) would be a LOT better off."

Okay, so Florida isn't ALL bad. There are, admittedly, a few things that I will miss about Florida when we ultimately leave. Quite high on the list, I have to say, is the ability of an alligator to stop traffic on busy Gainesville streets:

Speaking to my midwife this morning, I learned that women who are on the pill don't get ovarian cancer. It makes sense, of course, but I hadn't thought about it before. Let's hear it for birth control!

It never ceases to amaze me how grown men and women can, in certain situations, act like five-year-olds who need a nap. Honestly, when an adult (and it's no secret that I'm referring to graduate students who should know better) starts throwing what can only be described as a tantrum, I just want to shove a popsicle in their mouth and send them to their room. My mom always told me when I cried that it was because I needed a nap. I'm realizing now how right she was.

Through a tangled course of events last night that began with John making a poor driving decision and ended with us pulled over at a Kwik Stop talking to a police officer, we found out that we have chauffeurs' drivers licenses. Apparently, along with many many other things that the state of Florida can't do right, when we surrendered our Kansas licenses in exchange for Florida ones three years ago, the people at the DMV mistakenly listed both of us as chauffeurs. So if anybody in Gainesville wants to ride around in one of those Humvee limos, I could probably make that happen...

Most of you know about our on-again, off-again relationship with the US Postal Service. We've had bills gone undelivered, magazines arrived missing covers, covers arrived without magazines, you name it. It's gotten to the point that we only use USPS for Netflix and letters. Everything else is shipped UPS. But now, I'm starting to wonder if it really is the fault of the Post Office, or if somehow our house has become-- like Atlantis-- unlocatable. Consider, if you will, a recent conversation I had with a FedEx customer service rep:

Me: I just tracked my package and your website says that it was delivered to my front door three hours ago. It's not there.

FedEx: Let me track it for you.......... It says it's at [insert our address here].

Me: Yeah. It's not.

FedEx: It says it was delivered at 1:00.

Me. Yeah. It wasn't. I've been here all afternoon.

FedEx: Huh.

So yeah, it looks like we've fallen into the Bermuda Triangle. Unfortunately, we still get junk mail here. Go figure.

For those of you who were wondering what the latest is with our crazy neighbor, allow me to enlighten you while I pack my bags for hell. A few weeks ago, I pulled up to the house and almost as soon as I walked in the door, the crazy neighbor rang the doorbell. The conversation that ensued when I answered the door was nothing short of bizarre:

Crazy Neighbor: And you are...?

Me: ... Emily

Crazy Neighbor: Emily who?

Me (wondering if this bad knock-knock joke might end with my head in a bag): Emily Casey

Crazy Neighbor: And do your parents own this house?

Me (wildly confused): No... I own it.

Crazy Neighbor: Oh. Well, I wanted to tell you that (mumble mumble) died today at noon.

Since he was gesturing at the house across the street, I assumed that our other old neighbor had died. Considering that we've lived in this house for two years now, and he knows my name and the fact that I don't live with my parents, I have to assume that he's going senile. Which makes me the biggest asshole in the world for griping about him. I'll send you my new address once I get to hell...

Driving around Gainesville, you see some weird proclamations on church signs. I won't bore you with a laundry-list of all the ones I've cataloged so far, but one that John and I saw the other day was a real head-scratcher. It said: "Don't wait for six strong men to take you to church." Now, not being a church-goer myself, it took a while to sort that one out. In fact, I wasn't even the one to crack the code; it was John. I thought it was some reference to The Sopranos, and I silently gave kudos to the pastor who came up with that one. But no. John tells me that it's a reference to pallbearers. Someone at the church was feeling cryptic when they put that one up...

This morning, John overheard two girls chatting away at Panera. One said to the other, "So, in Tampa? They have these huge caterpillars? That fall on you." But when he retold the story to me, I heard that Tampa had huge caterpillars that follow you. As in, caterpillars that try to follow you home. I was so close to driving to Tampa just to find caterpillars that would follow me around the city for awhile! *sigh*

I'd like to buy a ham. An unsmoked, uncooked ham. But you can't buy that here in Gainesville. At least, not that I've found. Everything is either smoked (in various ways), smoked and spiral cut, smoked and unspiral cut, or otherwise fully cooked. Am I mistaken in thinking that it is possible to purchase an uncooked, unsmoked ham? Or is it just not possible in the great state of Florida? OR is it, not unlike the Fountain of Youth (which I hear is in Miami), simply unattainable?