But really, I can't blame Florida for all the irritants and umbrage from the first trip. That all came courtesy of the in-laws. The previous post re the wacky pool rules was just the beginning. What kind of people populate a community with such intricate rules and regs? People who have time to wax the chrome on their side-view mirrors. People who smoke stinky brown cigs and shell out wads of cash to keep their foo-foo dogs alive. People who keep decorating with a shell motif until you start wondering if you are really just staying in an under-utilized banquet room in a local seafood chain restaurant.
I've got pictures, Flap Nation so I can prove that it all really exists. So come with me. Come to land where you are actually not supposed to walk on the floor, where chocolate magically appears from the ice cube maker, where food isn't planned and prepared, so much as beaten and pulverized. The flavorless food is augmented with bizarre condiments like mango rhubarb jelly, wasabi mayonnaise and black cherry horseradish sauce. I lost two pounds that week. A latent benefit with a heavy price.
So, not only are there intense rules throughout the gated community about the exteriors and lots, the in-laws, who clearly thrive in this restricted environment, have brought the spirit of this repressive park regime into their own unit.
Flap-in-law rule # 1:
Do not walk on the floor. We, the occupants of this unit have an inordinate fear of foot fudge. If you insist on walking on the floors in this unit, we will be required to take protective measures. Therefore, all surfaces will be covered with sheets and towels. The occupants would appreciate it if you donned the socks that make everyone look like a bloated Dr. Suess character. We noticed the adult visitors tacitly ignore the aforementioned socks, so pointedly laid out on wooden bench near the entry-way with "Shoes Off Here!" painted in what we feel is a jovial script, but really comes off as irritatingly non-confrontational to our daughter-in-law who refuses to wear the socks because of the Tornado Effect--wherein the sight of the D-in-law wearing the fuzzy, brightly colored socks causes the son's genitals to curl back up into his nether cavity a'la the Wicked Witch of The Wests feet when the ruby slippers get transferred to Dorothy's feet. There will be no wearing of the socks by either adult visitor and the tension will build from day one, and grow as the week wears on and the towels and sheets become jumbled up and expose the actual floor surface.
Rule #2. Relax! Take it easy!
There's loads of time to do whatever you want, especially if you like to get up, read every supermarket circular in the St. Petersburg times,(approx. 45-60 mins.) make a shitload of bacon (approx. 25 mins. when you cannot find the pan which was under the goddamn stove the entire time) under the guise that "the kids like it" but really, you just want to eat it all, bumble in to shower and bathe your withered parts and blow dry what's left of your hair (approx. one hour) and then ignore every activity suggested by your daughter in law because they involve museums that might tax the intellect.Let's take a break from the rules to allow a mild rant about this stupid fucking clock. It kind of sums up everything about the in-laws phony philosphy on "Taking it Easy." I mean, Who Cares, indeed! The owners of this clock are the ones that care! It's still TELLING TIME. If you really didn't care what time it was, a. the clock would not work or b. not exist. All these people do all day is pretend to be laid-back, when what they are really doing 24/7 is obsessing over ironing their slacks and wondering what the assholes in the units on either side of them think about them.
Thus concludeth part one. Part two resumes when I get back from brunch at Hott Mama's.
