Gratitude… This, too, is Florida.

How does one write about gratitude without being overly cloying?
I have a little story for you about our whirlwind shenanigans this past weekend. And while it doesn’t directly have much to do with fashion or food, they creep in, as always.

On Saturday D and I made the quick decision to grab some lunch. The problem is Sanford isn’t exactly a foodie town. I don’t care what sort of careful marketing “they” are trying to spin. The restaurant scene is fairly bleak here.
Bar scene? Excellent.
Restaurant scene? Meh.

Our first choice was out because it is Mexican, and I knew I was going to cook Mexican the following day. (Vegan Sope recipe comin’ soon!)
Second choice was notoriously hit or miss when it comes to food & service, but we gave it a shot. Parked our bums on the outdoor patio, chatting happily with passersby who were as enthralled with our Yorkie, Nug Nug, as we are.

And we waited for someone to check on us.
And we waited for someone to at least take our dang drink order.
And we waited some more.
Thirty minutes deep, still with no service to speak of, the karaoke went from kinda cute to shrill & overbearing.
So we left. In a huff.
And ventured to our third choice. Hangry at this point.

As we rolled up, oh so ready for a Grouper Reuben & Yeungling, we saw the sign.
“Dogs no longer allowed.” Something about a new city ordinance, blah, blah, blah.
So we left. Huffier than before.
But as we did I paused to take a photo of the area behind the parking lot, which for some reason seemed particularly fetching.

“THIS is Florida”, D mused.

We headed home to drop Nuggie off and were headed out again to some undecided 4th-choice restaurant when I realized my wallet was missing.
Shit, damn, mothafucka.
It wasn’t an expensive designer wallet. I picked it up at my favorite thrift shop for 25 cents. One of those cuties you buy as a vacation souvenir. But I am a sucker for such things and it was just big enough to hold credit cards and lip gloss.
No cash.
But my Missouri driver’s license, which lawdy, lawdy, had not yet been switched over to a Florida license, was enclosed.
Along with my debit cards.

We retraced our steps at both restaurants, to no avail. I knew in my heart that I had dropped the wallet when I paused to take that damned photo.

I’m going to make a long story shorter.
It turns out that a goddess by the name of Stacey found my wee wallet in the parking lot. And instead of ignoring it, rifling through & throwing it away when no cash was found, or even just turning it in at the restaurant, she took time out of her day to try to track me down.
As I was calling my credit card company to report the card stolen, she was making her third call to report it found. Fortuitously providing the credit card company with her contact info.

Then she & her hubs actually met up with us. Waited at a park until our bumbling arrival.
She hugged me. Both had the warm smiles of folks who knew they did ya a HUGE solid and were just happy to have obliged.
We should’ve at the very least offered to buy them drinks at the still undecided 4th-choice restaurant. I was too giddy with low blood sugar to think clearly.
Or overwhelmed with gratitude, perhaps?
Don’t believe the “Florida Man” hype.
When you’re hot, sweaty, hangry, & already annoyed because of your own stupid mistake, maybe you’ll get lucky & a Stacey will swoop in and save the day.
This, too, is Florida.