I am not a beach person. Not really. I like the idea of looking at the waves – from a well air-conditioned restaurant at the water’s edge.
Going to the beach is too much like camping to me.
I do not like camping.
I do not like any activity where you have to pack and drag all of the things you need to be moderately comfortable at your destination.
I don’t even like carrying carry-on luggage.
So living in Ft. Lauderdale is, for me, not all it’s cracked up to be.
But here I am, ostensibly to “keep an eye” on my aging-but-way-too-active parents, who were supposed to be here for almost half the year.
Except that they’re not. And to make matters worse, it seems they have no plans to be here for any longer than the 6 weeks in the winter that they have always have stayed.
Where I now live.
Where I dragged all my stuff, all my furniture, all my clothes and all my animals. And my car.
When the dust settled in September, when my parents returned to NY after “helping” me move in, when I was still an Orphan on Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Years, I occurred to me that I might have been a bit misled.
And although I’m not entirely unhappy here, I’m still just a little confused.
Ok, maybe a lot confused.
So my plans for “Making A Country Living” are on hold while I figure out just “How To Make A Florida Living.”