Misspelled Cubans, Yankee terrorists and nuke-u-lar energy: 72 hours with me

It’s been a weird week. Really weird. Emergency appendectomies (for the Mister) and driving, driving and more driving and scheduling and re-scheduling and room service and crazy drivers.

Here are some highlights:

* I drove across the state of Florida not once but twice in a 48-hour period. Lots of thought-time. Primary conclusion: I love my state like nothing else. And that trucks full of oranges going 73 miles an hour on a two-lane road can be pretty imposing. Plus radio SUCKS in that part of the world. Sorry, but true. And you KNOW how I am about my music...

* From the time the door of the ER in Palm Beach Gardens was darkened to the moment the elderly (and I do mean elderly – she remembers where she was when she heard the news that Glenn Miller’s plane went down. Vividly.) but sweet pink-coat-wearing volunteer wheeled the Patient out the front door to my awaiting car: under 12 hours. That includes time spent cooling one’s heals in the ER, diagnosis, surgery, recovery, post-op, check-out. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am and may we see your insurance card. Whooosh. God bless our health care system.

* I debated the definition of "soft foods." For the record, unless you are a grizzly bear, cedar-planked salmon on fettuccine alfredo is not a soft food. I'm just sayin'.

* I was seen coming and going from the Palm Beach Gardens Marriott driving two different cars, leaving on foot and arriving in a cab. The bellmen probably thought I was either a hooer or a drug dealer. Probably the latter, since no self respecting hooker in that neighborhood would do business in workout clothes and Chuck Taylors.

* I found amusement seeing this printed EVERYWHERE in the hotel:Look at the Cuban Sandwich description. Y'all. It's "mojo," not "moho." Sure, that's how it's pronounced. However...

And you'd think that in an area with a large Hispanic population and one that features Caribbean and Cuban cuisine frequently, someone -- anyone, including the printer, would know better. Oy.

* There was a group of nuclear energy professionals having a meeting in the hotel and I was gratified to overhear, more than once, the word pronounced “nuke-u-lar.” Just like Jimmy Carter and I say it. Yeah, I know. But too bad.

* I spent some time hanging on the beach – I love being surfside at this time of year. Something so exhilarating and affirming about it. Usually. Although this little warning can take some of the zip out of one’s doo-dah:

The beach was fairly deserted, save for a couple of departing surfers and this guy:

C’mon. It’s the beach, granted – but it was also 60 degrees. Dude. Not necessary when it’s warm out and REALLY not necessary now.

* Oh -- and I spotting this bumper sticker on the back of a very large truck on the way home:I love my state. I love the South. All hail Dixieland.

I’m sure there are other details and tidbits that will occur to me immediately upon hitting “Post.” But for now, this shall suffice.

It’s a crazy world I inhabit… certifiable.