STRANGER THAN FICTION: HELLO FROM FLORIDA, THE SUNSHINE SATE OF HURRICANES!

The Other Half and I barely had time to get settled in and start our new jobs before a tornado touched down 10 miles from our apartment. Yes, that's how we decide where to live. We look for the area with the most natural disasters and move there. All those weather warnings on the local channels made us feel right at home.

We're working at the Pensacola News Journal, The Other Half in the main office and me in the smaller Milton bureau. I'm fitting in really well there -- wrote my first column and already had a complaint about a reference to "intimate body parts." My first fast-breaking news story was about a gang of wild dogs terrorizing ducks at a local wildlife refuge. Ends up the dogs wear little bandannas to indicate which gang they're in, throw up hand signals, spray-paint weird symbols on buildings -- it's really a mess.

There's another reporter at my bureau. Her name is Elizabeth, and she can't be any taller than 4 feet, 11 inches. At 6 feet, 3 inches, I'm constantly afraid that I won't see her and will accidentally crush her under my feet. The local officials love to talk to Elizabeth. The same law officer who welcomed her to Milton later gave me a 15-minute-long speech about why News Journal reporters are idiots. I'm convinced my size gives me an adversarial relationship with some men. Elizabeth looks like she might start crying if anyone is mean to her. I look like I might take a swing at something. Funny thing is, the opposite is probably true.

But most people here are extremely friendly and love to talk. For example, it took us over an hour to open a checking account because the bank official wanted to tell us about her daughter's kidney transplant and her best friend's brand-new colostomy bag. Our new insurance agent told us all about his trip to the Sugar Bowl and showed us pictures of himself searing a Gator mask and being kissed by a chesty blonde, "My wife don't like to see these," he said.

Another notable Floridian trait is sensitivity about the weather. For example, the man in the bagel shop profusely apologized for the low temperature after he found out we just moved from Missouri. "Just stick it out," he pleaded. "It will get better, I swear! This is usually a very warm area!"

Unfortunately, the insurance industry isn't as welcoming. Our car insurance more than doubled when we moved here. It costs $180 to get Florida tags and another $20 to change your driver's license. We just missed a $600 impact fee found to be illegal. The idea behind it was that you should pay Florida $600 for the privilege of driving your car in such beauty.

No wonder the insurance is so high here, though, with the way people drive. Sure, everyone says the drivers in their state or city are the worst. The difference here is that Pensacola drivers REALLY ARE THE WORST. The phrase "left turn yield" means nothing to them. In most states, the right lane is for driving and the left lane for passing. Here, both are equally desirable. People continue to drive in the left lane despite my personal campaign of making an "L" shape with my hand and yelling "LOSER" as I pass on the right.

Pensacola Beach makes it all worthwhile. It has white sand, emerald water and literally hundreds of Navy men in shorts at any given time. I can't decide which feature is most appealing! Trust me, if I weren't too old to join the Navy, there DEFINITELY would be sexual harassment in our nation's armed forces (just kidding, Mr. Half).

The other wonderful feature about living in Florida is that our apartment has washer-dryer hook-ups. This means that, for the first time in eight years of living outside my parent's house, I don't have to go to the Laundromat once a week. Not that watching my own unmentionables twirl round and round in the big dryers isn't exciting, and not that I don't enjoy the smell of Downy mixed with generic cigarette smoke, and not that I don't enjoy hearing mothers yell, "Jethro, would you get your *&##@ down from that laundry car!" It's just that hearing the agitator swish soapy water around in the privacy of my own home does something to me. It's almost spiritual.

Speaking of laundry, I just head the buzzer sound on the dryer and I've got to go. Ya'll come down and see us now, hear?

~Heidi Nieland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.