In Search of a Spa

Close proximity to Disney World is one of the best perks of living in Celebration. But when your home is in a tourist area, you have access to some other neat things, too. For example, name a type of food and it's available within reasonable striking distance. Better yet, you won't have to pay full price; just grab a coupon book at one of the racks you can find in virtually any store and chances are good you'll find a discount for your restaurant of choice.

Food aside, I just love the fact that any time I've got a hankering for a spa treatment, I can almost always get a same day appointment somewhere nearby, be it in Celebration, at one of the Disney World hotels, or a resort/spa in the surrounding area. In Chicago, there is an excellent spa just minutes from my condo. Unfortunately, in order to indulge in a hot rock massage or a pampering pedicure, you need to do some advance planning. Generally, you must call at least two or three days in advance; if you want a weekend appointment, you're got to book it at least a week ahead of time. With my busy schedule, I don't always know when I'll have a time gap until it actually occurs, so that makes it difficult.

In the Disney World/Kissimmee area, it seems like almost every major resort hotel has a spa. Since most tourists are in town for a limited amount of time, they are geared to short-notice callers.

Celebration itself also has some options, most notably the spa at the Mirasol apartment complex. But since that one caters to a local clientele, it generally requires more advance notice than the touristy locations. The fitness center at Celebration Health also offers massages, but again, they tend to be patronized by the local crowd so last-minute appointments are hard to come by.

I learned this when I embarked on a search for a spa yesterday afternoon. My back and shoulders had been nagging me all week, but by Wednesday they had stiffened into hard, cold marble. It hurt just to move my head. I carry all my tension in my shoulders, even at the best of times, but I suspect that all my work on my laptop is provoking my problem areas more than usual.

When I worked on location in a business office, my set-up was at least halfway ergonomic. I had an adjustable chair with a back support, a wrist rest for my keyboard, and blocks to adjust the height of my monitor. Now, my "work station" consists of the family room couch, and the height of my laptop is pretty much limited by the height of my lap. I don't think there's any way known to man to make a laptop keyboard and touch pad ergonomic. I feel pretty comfortable while working, but apparently it's taking a toll (or maybe my back is just just being persnickity this week, since I've been working at home for over a month, and this is the first time it's been a real problem).

At any rate, I decided that I needed a good deep tissue massage to work out the knots and impart some flexibility back into my stiff, aching muscles. If I had been back at my Chicago condo, I would have slipped into a tub of soothing hot water and kicked on the whirlpool jets. Unfortunately, the bathtub in Duloc Manor would make Mini-Me feel crowded, and it most certainly doesn't have jets. Massage was my only workable option, and it was already mid-afternoon, so I knew I'd better pull out the phone book and start dialing.

I have always been a "spa person." When my husband asked me to marry him, in the interests of full disclosure I warned him that I am very high maintenance. I've never been one to mess with my hair or take the time to apply artful makeup. The only "hair styles" I bother with are those that require a brush and no more than 10 minutes with the blow dryer. Makeup is something that I reserve for special occasions (and I mean very special, like a wedding or funeral).

But while I'm not high maintenance on things that affect my outward appearance, I totally indulge my inner self. Massages, reflexology, facials, pedicures, body wraps...ahhhhhh, that's the life! I wanted my poor husband to know exactly what he was getting into; what I didn't realize was that he would quickly become as bad as me. Now, he loves massages just as much as I do, and when we're on a cruise, he will schedule a seaweed wrap every day if I let him. We both work hard, but we make sure to play hard too. When you have lots of day to day stress, it's all the more important to focus on your inner well-being.

In my search for a massage, I struck out on my first two calls (Mirasol and Celebration Health). I had been prepared for that; Plan B was to start working my way through the various massage offerings at the Walt Disney World hotels. I started with the Animal Kingdom Lodge, since it's not as well known as the locations with full-blown spas, like the Grand Floridian and Saratoga Springs. Unfortunately, after listening to an endless recorded message, I discovered that I would have to leave a message for a call-back. Not a feasible option when time is of the essence.

I tried the Contemporary, another lesser-known massage place. I managed to get a human being on the phone this time, but unfortunately they were all booked up. Next up was the Yacht and Beach Club, where I was denied once again.

It was time to start calling the actual spas; I started with Saratoga Springs, which is conveniently located right by Downtown Disney. It's actually the revamped/rebuilt Disney Institute, which had a spa in its original incarnation that survived the transition to Disney's newest DVC resort.

Like the Animal Kingdom Lodge, Saratoga Springs had the Long Intro Recording From Hell. I don't need an ad nauseum recitation of the spa services; I already know that I'm calling a spa. Can't they have an option at the beginning: "To skip the boring, 20 minute spiel, press 1"?

I managed to make it through to the recitation of the menu options and gamely pressed the magic number that would connect me to the appointment line. Of course, "all agents were busy assisting other guests," so I settled in for a wait. A minute or two later, I was abruptly disconnected without ever speaking to a human. I hit redial, secure in the knowledge that I could cut off the spiel by punching the designated number again. Once again, I pressed it, and this time I didn't even spend any time on hold before promptly being cut off. Grrrr! A spa is supposed to be a place that reduces stress. I hadn't even made an appointment yet, and already I was gritting my teeth into powder. I tried one more time, and this time I got the "stay on hold for a while before we hang up on you" treatment. It almost became a vendetta, but I restrained myself by remembering that valuable time was wasting away.

Next up was the spa at the Grand Floridian. As I was clicked into the scary netherworld of Hold yet again, I wondered if perhaps there was no one at any of the Disney World spa switchboards. Perhaps the spas really didn't exist at all; instead, it might part of an elaborate marketing ploy.

I didn't get much further in that train of thought, as someone finally came to the phone. (Actually, I know quite well that the Grand Floridian's spa exists, as I have been there before, as well as at the spas at the Marriott World Center and the Gaylord Palms, and I've also had an aromatherapy massage at the Animal Kingdom Lodge). But all my trouble was in vain, as they were completely booked up too.

It was beginning to look like I'd have to leave the Bosom of the Mouse for my massage. Many of the surrounding hotels have spas, too, but I didn't really want to drive too far. I racked my brain and remembered that there are some upscale non-Disney hotels in the Downtown Disney area that might have some spa offerings. I tried the Hyatt and the Hilton without success, and the Wyndam, like AK Lodge, had recorded instructions to leave my name and number. In a business that caters to tourists on the go, that seems like an oxymoron. I'm sure that visitors to the Orlando area really feel like sitting around their hotel room waiting for a call-back.

I toyed with calling the Marriott World Center or the Gaylord Palms. The Gaylord in particular has a wonderful spa that is affiliated with the famous Canyon Ranch. Unfortunately, their prices reflect their upscale affiliation. I wasn't too thrilled about paying a premium; it wouldn't be so bad if I had the time to lounge around their sitting area, drinking tea and snacking on fresh fruit, or if I could take a dip in their hot tub, but my schedule was too tight for an hours-long full-blown spa experience.

It looked like my only other option might be to raid the bottom of the bird's cage for an old Sunday newspaper. The massage ads in the Sunday Sentinel never cease to amuse me. Sadly, I get the impression that many of them are thinly veiled ads for prostitution. When you see words like "All Female Staff, We'll Make Your Dreams Come True!", flanked by a photo of half-dressed women with porno-flick-pseudo-ecstacy expressions on their faces, it's hard to imagine that the services are legitimate. There are some real massage parlors mixed in among the places that cater to lonely businessmen looking for a happy ending, but I didn't feel like sifting through them.

Then it dawned on me: What about the Swan and Dolphin, the red-haired stepchildren of the Disney World hotels? Even though they are in a prime location in the Epcot resort area, they often get shunted aside in people's minds because they are not directly owned by Disney.

I dialed the Dolphin and struck paydirt. They had a massage appointment only one hour away! I'd have just enough time to take a quick shower and buzz over to Disney World. Once you leave East Village, it's a short jaunt to World Drive via Celebration Boulevard. Just pass under the magical arch and voila! You're on the Mouse's property without ever having to face the gaudy neon wasteland of 192.

I know the roads at the Disney World resort quite well, but even if I didn't, it's nearly impossible to miss the Dolphin and the Swan. You can see the gaudy pink and teal pyramid rising up in the sky in the distance almost as soon as you enter Disney property. Those hotels were under construction the first time I ever visited the Orlando area, and I remember cringing at their gaudiness even then. Michael Eisener must have a weakness for giant, tacky icons, as so many sprang up while he was in charge.

I could have lived with the Swan and Dolphin, which are actually quite low-key as far as Disney tackiness goes. But to this day I consider the Value resorts (the All-Stars and Pop Century) to be hideous eye sores. To me, "Theming" means something tasteful, like the Polynesian or Port Orleans. It does not mean taking a Motel 6, slapping on primary colored paint and tossing giant icons around the property willy-nilly.

The iconic horror is not limited to the hotels. It broke my heart the day they erected the uge sorcer's hat in front of the replica of Grauman's Chinese Theater in Disney MGM Studio. To me, Grauman's equated Hollywood; it was an appropriate icon. Same thing with the Earful Tower, a replica of the water tower at the Burbank Studio. Not that I have anything against Sorcerer Mickey, but what does he have to do with studios and film making, other than being in a movie? It takes away from the original character of that park and it's old-time Hollywood (of course, I suppose it's not much of a studio anymore anyway, especially since they shut down the animation production facility there).

Ah, but I digress. I didn't care what the Dolphin looked like, as long as there was a message therapist waiting for me inside. I, of all people, know not to judge something on its ugly tacky outside; after all, remember that I drive a Pontiac Aztek.

Besides, I knew what to expect, as I had been to the Dolphin before. Ironically, it was while attending a conference there that I ended up visiting Celebration, which of course led to buying Duloc Manor. I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot near the convention center. As I walked past the banquet halls and meeting rooms, heading toward the rotunda lobby, I couldn't drifting through these hallways, blissfully unaware that her future self would someday return as a Celebration-dwelling Floridian.

Finding the spa was like making my way through a twisting, turning maze. Down two floors, then follow the signs to the pool. Once there, I had been assured that I would find the fitness center, where the massage therapy rooms were tucked inside. Sure enough, I found it with 15 minutes to spare. I as given a robe, slippers, and a locker key so I could prepare for my hour in Heaven.

Promptly on the hour, the massage therapist escorted me into a treatment room. Since I had chosen an aromatherapy massage, the first order of business was to choose my oil. They all had optimistic, promising names, like Rejuvination, Balance, Stress Rejuvination, and Relaxation. Generally, I like lavendar (which is found in most relaxation blends), but I decided to go out on a limb and choose something totally different. I went with Balance because it smelled quite intriguiging, although I have no idea what sort of essential oils it contained.

I spread out on the bed and lapsed into a coma of relaxation. I could feel her working my resistant muscles, and their cracks and creaks made me cringe. But somehow she managed to pull out the knots, and by the time she was done, it felt soooo much better. The pain wasn't completely gone, but it was at the lowest level that it had been in days.

I didn't want to up, but I knew that I had no choice. Reluctantly, I dragged my carcass to the locker room, where I decided to wash my hair before heading back to Duloc Manor and more time at my PC keyboard. I hated to take a shower and slough off the wonderfully scented oil, but I also didn't want to walk around looking like my hair hadn't been washed in weeks and like it might catch fire if you lit a match nearby.

Fortunately, the shampoo and conditioner were even better smelling than the oils. They were some sort of spa brand that I had never seen before, so I lavished them on and reveled in the hot water and the profusion of blissful-smelling suds.

All too soon it was time to drag my carcass home. Thankfully the rain that had been threatening all day had held off so I didn't have to get soggy on my way to the car. As I drove back to Celebration, I realized how good felt not to have my shoulder tendons throbbing. Things had been looking bleak during my first several phone calls, but I knew that eventually I'd find a spa and I'd been proven correct. Just another reason to love living in the Tourist Capital of the U.S.A.

My email address is celebration@mailblocks.com

My Celebration website is www.celebrationinfo.com

Immediate Gratification

Spending five days in Chicago gave me a renewed appreciation for the winter weather in Florida. Just yesterday, I was watching the snow fall for the second day in a row. I couldn't venture out without a coat and the heat cranked up in the car. Today, after a two hour flight, I am sitting in front of an open window, reveling in the sunshine and the pleasant breeze. Outside, it's warm enough for kids to be playing in the East Village pool. Coat? What's a coat? I am perfectly content and comfortable in my t-shirt and shorts. In Chicago, I forgot some house plants in my car until evening, and the poor things all froze and died. In Celebration, I just came home with two hanging pots of flowers for my backyard.

It's a real treat for me now, but I can't help wonder whether I will become jaded over time. Soon, warm winter weather won't be something to marvel at; instead, it will be what I expect, and I'll grouse when the mercury dips below 60. I'd like to think that will never happen, but I already take my proximity to Disney World for granted. Once upon a time, a vacation with the Mouse was a once or twice yearly treat. Now, it's just another one of a long list of activites that I can indulge in any time I please. If we go to the parks and they are too crowded, we just turn around and leave because tomorrow is another day.

I realized just how used to immediate gratification I have become while I was chatting with my co-workers. While I was in Chicago, I stopped at the office to join them for lunch. Someone asked if I had been to Disney World lately, and I replied that I hadn't been to the parks in weeks because I've been so busy. I added, "But we have made it over there for dinner a couple of times."

To me, the idea of dinner at Disney World is just as natural as breathing. It's the equivalent of driving over to the mall in Chicago to go to Red Lobster, T.G.I. Friday's, or Olive Garden. Now, instead of the chains, we just drive to one of the Disney hotels and dine at Jiko, Ohana, or the Cape May Buffet. Or, if we're feeling really ambitious, we slip into one of the parks to eat at Morocco or Canada at Epcot or Brown Derby or 50's Prime Time Cafe in the Studio.

But to someone who lives 1200 miles away and considers Disney World a vacation destination rather than the big tourist trap next door, I guess that sounds rather odd. It would have sounded that way to me once, too, but now it's just the way things are. I don't think I'll ever get tired of it, but I supposed that being able to indulge my Disney fanaticism whenever I please has rubbed off a little bit of the pixie dust.

Of course, that's not limited to living next door to Mickey and friends. More and more, I see patience and waiting giving way to immediate gratification. It's not just true of me, but of the whole world around me. On one hand, it's nice to have easy access to the things that you love. On the other, having to wait makes them somehow more valuable when you finally do get them.

Case in point: I grew up long before the era of DVDs, and VCRs did not become popular until I was out of high school. Before that (believe it or not, youngsters!), I had to watch what the original three networks cared to put on, and too bad if I missed a show that I really wanted to see. That was before cable, so the pickings were pretty slim in the first place.

For movies, the two big options were 1) See it in the theater; or 2) Wait forever and then see the badly mangled, commercial-laden network premiere that might come years later.

From today's cable-Tivio-DVD perspective, it might sound like I led a miserably deprived childhood. Now, you can record programs without a second thought and get just about anything you want at the local video store. You don't wait years to see a favorite movie after it's theatrical release; at most, it will be a matter of months. Complete collections of your favorite television shows are as close as your local Border's or Barne's & Noble, unless you prefer ordering from Amazon.com.

But there was a certain pleasure in being denied that immediate gratification. Having to wait made victory so much sweeter when a favorite show finally graced the airwaves. Probably the best example of this is the plethora of Christmas specials that were broadcast every holiday season.

I grew up with those scary but beloved Rankin-Bass classics like "Rudolph," "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town," and "The Year Without a Santa Claus." Sure, like every child, I looked forward to Christmas for the bounty of presents, but that was only a small part of it. Once the Thanksgiving meal was over (yes, back in those days, the Christmas season didn't start the day after Halloween), I knew that it was time to start snapping up the new T.V. Guide every Sunday. Soon enough, I'd get to see my old pals Snow Miser, the Bumble, and Burger Meister Meister Burger on their long-anticipated yearly visit. And of course there were the lesser luminaries of the Christmas cartoon season, such as the clock-dwelling mice in "Twas the Night Before Christmas" and Frosty the Snowman vs. the evil magician who owned the magic hat.

There were some B-rated shows, too, like the abysmal "Rudolph's Shiny New Year," with the Dumbo-eared Baby New Year, and "Nester the Long-Eared Christmas Donkey" (someone at Rankin-Bass must have had a large-ear fetish). I watched those if nothing better was on, but they weren't no-misses like the others.

There is a saying that anticipation is greater than realization, and I believe it's true. Seeing the shows was great, but the delicious build-up was so exciting. It was an integral part of my childhood Christmas season.

There were other non-seasonal shows that inspired that same excitement. Every year, the "Wizard of Oz" would be shown with great fanfare. It was almost always sponsored by Singer sewing machines. Other movies that I waited for with baited breath included "Yellow Submarine" with the Beatles, "The Incredible Mr. Limpet" with Don Knotts, and "Gay Puree," an obscure cartoon about cats in France, with main characters voiced by Robert Goulet, Judy Garland, and Red Buttons. Now, I own them all on video or DVD, either purchased or taped from a cable channel.

And of course I own all of my holiday favorites on DVD. I can sing along with Snow Miser and his mini-me minions any time I please. I buy my favorite movies as they come out; I am counting the days until "The Incredibles" is released later this week.

It's great to be able to have all of my favorite movies and shows at my fingertips, but something is missing. I'll never have that warm feeling of excitement when I come across a gem in the T.V. Guide or that excited buildup to Christmas with those seasonal cartoons as a big part of it.

Immediate gratification is nice, but maybe us humans weren't meant to be indulged in every little desire. When you have to wait for something, or work for it, it has more meaning and you have more appreciation. I'm sure that those who grew up in generations after mine can't imagine what it's like not to have movies and t.v. shows at their fingertips. They don't even have to wait until they get home to view 'em. Now, there are portable DVD players and entertainment systems built right into cars.

Just as those kids can't relate to what my long-ago anticipation was like, I supposed it's inevitable that I'm learning to take things for granted that I once viewed as special. Warm weather all year 'round, with no more blizzards and sub-zero temperatures? Not special anymore, just par for the course. Heading over to Disney World on a whim, catching a few rides at the Magic Kingdom before hopping over to Epcot for dinner at Morocco? Not a yearly treat...just another ho-hum day in Paradise.

As much as I hate returning to Chicago, maybe it's good for me. It will be a regular reminder that once upon a time those things weren't part of my everyday life, and I should count myself very lucky that they are now.

My email address is celebration@mailblocks.com

My Celebration website is www.celebrationinfo.com

Zap!

Celebration may be a great place, but it's missing one very special wintertime component of Chicago: static electricity. Now that I'm back in the dry Midwest winter, I get a shock nearly every time I touch a switchplate or other conducive object. Even though it's only been five weeks since my move, I quickly forgot about the dry air and blue sparks crackling from my fingertips (not to mention flaky skin that needs to be slathered in lotion every night and chapped lips begging for balm).

It was worse when the cats were here. Every time I touch them, or they rubbed their faces against me, ZAP! Sure, I get a charge out of cats, but I prefer it to be figurative rather than literal. After each shock, they would give me a dirty look, like, "Why did you do that to me? Just for that, I'm spitting up a hairball on the carpet tonight."

Petting them briskly in a dark room would generate a shower of sparks. It reminded me of when I was a teenager; I loved to stand in front of a mirror in a dark room and chew wintergreen Lifesavers with my mouth open. Believe it or not, that actually produced green sparks. I read that in "Dynamite" magazine, which other children of the 70s might remember.

I don't think the Lifesavers trick works anymore. It was probably the result of some dangerous radioactive ingredient that has damaged me for life. They were probably forced to remove it after secret lawsuits and multi-million-dollar payoffs. The cats produce blue sparks, not green, and you must stroke their fur rather than chew them (which is good because they don't have that refreshing minty taste), but the effect is still cool. And it's not dangerous unless you try it on Tooncinator, the crazy cat.

But that doesn't work in Florida, where the air is moist even in the wintertime. I remember years of winter Disney vacations, when that swell of humidity would hit me the moment that I stepped off the plane and headed down the jetway to my favorite state. After snow and sub-zero temperatures, it felt so good!

Actually, the humidity has been pretty low-key lately. For the past couple of weeks, the Florida temperatures have been chilly enough for us to turn on our heat pump at night. During the day it's usually pleasant enough to open all the windows and revel in the warm air and the pleasant, fresh breeze. Contrast that with the weather in Chicago this week and you'll know why I'm pining for Celebration. Yesterday, I brought some plants home from my former office and forgot them in the car for several hours. The poor things frozen solid, and I suspect that they're not going to recover. Then it snowed all day today; it was wet, heavy, sloppy snow that accumulated just enough to powder the rooftops, cars, and streets. As I watched the salt trucks drive by, I realized that they were another sight that I never miss in Florida.

At least there was one small treat in Chicago. Unlike Duloc Manor, our condo has a nice whirlpool tub in the master bathroom. Our house in Celebration features a rinky-dinky tub that would make Mini-Me from the Austin Powers movies feel claustrophobic. We want to get a small whirlpool installed, but it's nearly impossible to find anyone to do it. Thus, in Florida I am deprived of one of my major pleasures in life: A steaming hot bubble bath, with the jets whipping the foam into an overflowing frenzy. My husband also loves soaking in muscle-relaxing salts that tame down the pain in his arthritic knees.

The tub in our condo is a garden tub (which would never fit in our Florida house). It's open and airy and surrounded by mirrors, with the walls painted a soothing sea foam green. I slip in, lean back against my bath pillow, and prop up a good novel on a second pillow that I conveniently float over my chest to make a book stand. Sometimes I stay in the tub literally for hours, and my husband is just as bad. We've been know to fight over who has "whirlpool rights" some evenings.

It's lonely taking a bath without the cats around. In their insatiable curiosity, they used to love to wend their way around the tub and to sleep on the tile beside it. Both Tooncinator and Farquaad would position themselves quite close to the edge and dip in their paws, but Stitch did not share their affinity for water. My husband swears that whoever owned him before he ended up at the animal shelter must have drown; when we first got him, he would sit in the bathroom and howl whenever one of us took a shower. I eventually dubbed him "The Wedding Singer," since he is a tuxedo cat and since some of his wailings were rather melodious.

Farquaad did manage to fall in the tub one day; he was the picture of embarrassment as my husband chased him down to towel him off. But it didn't dampen his enthusiasm for hanging around the bathtub; it just taught him to balance more carefully.

The "new" cats never topped my old cat, Vinnie, who also liked to perch on the tub. Sometimes I light candles to create a relaxing ambiance while soaking, and one day Vinnie managed to catch his tail on fire while weaving his way around them. I reflexively grabbed him and dunked his butt in my bath. He didn't even realize that he was spontaneously combusting; the offended look that he gave me was priceless. I couldn't help but laugh, even though I was gagging on the scent of burning cat hair.

In Duloc Manor, when I grease myself up and shoehorn my body into the micro-tub, the cats still like to join me. But there is no edge to perch on, so the three of them all take up residence in various corners of the bathroom. Sometimes they curl up in the sink or recline on the toilet. Other times they just sprawl on the bath mat. I've never figured out their obsession with human cleanliness. Perhaps they wonder why we go through so much trouble when we could simply lick ourselves clean.

We're flying back to Celebration tomorrow afternoon, so I hope that the snow is over. We'll be in the Southwest cattle call, so goodness only knows where we'll be sitting, but I'll take any seat if it gets me back home. Five days in a Chicago March were more than enough to remind me of why I love Florida. No static electricity or snow, just sunshine, palm trees, and that wonderful warmth.

You can email me at celebration@mailblocks.com

My website on Celebration is www.celebrationinfo.com

The Kitty Karavan Revisited

Over a month ago, I documented the tale of our drive through the Atlanta ice storm, transporting our cats, bird, and fish to Celebration. However, that blog entry ended a bit prematurely. I only wrote "part one," as I was waiting for some photos to illustrate "part two." The adventure did not end with our arrival at Duloc Manor. You might guess that we crashed into bed, exhausted, and didn't stir for the next 24 hours, but no...there were more adventures ahead. Below is the story as I wrote it back then, saving it to post until I got the photo links ready too:

Ah, the simple joy of arriving home after a long, arduous journey through mountains, rain, ice storms, and an endless forest of Disney World ticket deal billboards. My husband and I were reveling in that joy on the Saturday night of the Kitty Karavan, having gotten the car unpacked and the cats released into their new environment.

My lovely, pristine home quickly turned into a forest of plastic bags (easier to stash into limited car space than boxes), and the cats were already shedding while the bird dropped dander and flung his seeds around for good measure. Ah, the joy of owning pets. All you need are a few animals to turn a home from "shows like a model" to "lived in" within minutes.

We decided not to bother unpacking everything that night. We would pull out the necessities and deal with the rest later, once we got caught up on our sleep. Even though we'd managed some fitful spells of shut-eye in the car, I wouldn't classify it as "restful." The vehicle was packed to the gills, so the passenger seat would not recline. The only way to fall asleep while sitting bolt upright is when you are so exhausted that consciousness is no longer a physically possible option.

We had forgotten a few essential items that could be picked up at Walgreens, so we decided to run out for those and then hop across the street to Logan's Steakhouse for a real meal. After grabbing fast food on the road for 24 hours (most notably Wendy's and Taco Bell), we were craving something that didn't taste like greasy cardboard.

However, in all the insanity, I had forgotten one minor detail: Not only was Saturday our homecoming, but it was also the date of the latest meeting of the Bunny Brigade. If you read my blog regularly, you are probably familiar with this splinter faction of Celebrationites. Founded by a resident we'll call "Jan" (names not changed to protect the innocent), the Brigade is a loose-knit social group with a tendency to don strange headgear and to do even stranger things. The head gear started out as rabbit ears and evolved into a forest of fuzzy, funny and just plain freaky head toppers. The only requirement is a willingness to cover your scalp and to let loose and have fun.

The first meeting was held last summer at the Town Tavern when the Tampa Bay Bucs were in town. The hurricanes put a crimp into the next planned get-together, but the Bunnies have re-banded now that Mother Nature has calmed down. We had a blast at Founder's Day, and now there was a shindig at Jan's house to celebrate her "29th" birthday. That turned out to be the very day that our ragged and exhausted Kitty Karavan pulled into town.

As I was making a futile attempt to sort things before collapsing into unconsciousness, the phone rang with a call from the party house. At first, I was tempted to skip it due to my sleep-deprived stupor, but my love of partying was at war with my common sense. Finally I said that my husband and I would probably stop over after we grabbed a bite (if we managed to stay awake through the meal and still had enough soundness of mind to make it back to Celebration).

My husband had managed to make the time for a shower, but between playing cat referee and attempting to bring some small measure of organization to the chaos of Duloc Manor, I hadn't gotten around to cleansing my sweaty body. I figured that it didn't matter; Logan's was likely to be packed with tourists who I'd never see again. After a long day at the theme parks, they were probably dirtier and sweatier than I was anyway.

As we approached the car, I had to fight a panic attack brought on by a sudden rush of memories: being crammed in for 24 hours like a sardine; sitting frozen in fear behind the wheel as my vehicle slid along the Atlanta expressways like an out-of-control figure skater; trying to fall asleep without stiffening up like a board and freezing into a statue position in the crammed passenger seat; fighting to combat sleep deprivation to make it to Celebration before I totally lost my mind. I strongly suspected that I might now be suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

But my hunger for a real meal overcome my vehicle phobia. We left the critters to explore their new surroundings and headed off across 192. Both Logan's and Walgreen's are within spitting distance of the entrance to Celebration, so within minutes we had picked up what we needed and were tucking into juicy steaks. I also treated myself to a strawberry margarita (well, okay, TWO margaritas, but only because there was a two-for-one special).

Once our bodies were fueled, we decided to stop by the party, even if we just said a quick hello. But as we crossed the bridge into Celebration, we spotted the NEV train (an electric train made up of Neighborood Electric Vehicles, the Celebration version of streetworthy golf carts). And on the train, we though that we recognized several members of the Bunny Brigade!

Granted, I knew that I might be hallucinating, but we figured that if the Bunnies were out and about, it wouldn't make sense to go to the party house since it was most likely deserted. Instead, we returned to Duloc Manor, ready to hibernate as deeply as narcoleptic bears.

Our crazy cat, Tooncinator, had been hiding behind the television stand when we left, acting as though his world was shattered. But as I approached the back door, I could see him through the curtain, standing up on the kitchen counters. Of course, he scattered like a New York cockroach when he heard the key in the lock, but I had caught him. He could pretend to be a poor, frightened kitty all he wanted in front of me, but now I knew he had made himself at home the minute we were out of sight.

My husband tried to finish up the unpacking, while I brought my porch swing cushions outside. I was just plumping them in place when I heard the strains of party music approaching. Sure enough, I saw the NEV train coming around the bed. We hadn't gone to the party, so the party was coming to us!

In a panic borne of exhaustion, I dropped the cushions and ran inside. Like some lunatic version of Paul Revere, I yelled to my husband, "The Brigade is coming! The Brigade is coming!" Knowing that resistance is futile, we headed outside to surrender.

It was on that night that I learned the protective powers of aluminum headgear in combating alien mind control. The entire Bunny Brigade was wearing customized, fashionable aluminum hats. My husband and I quickly fashioned our own; considering that we had had no quality sleep for well over 24 hours, and that I had a couple of alcoholic beverages in me, they turned out pretty good.

If you'd like to see the train and several Brigade members modeling their lovely and functional chapeaus, click here (it will open in a new window). On the web page, you will also learn how the Brigade uses this special headgear to combat the mind control of paraterrestrials who have infiltrated Disney and who see to control the innocent citizens of Celebration. And we're actually part of a larger, nationwide movement. For the official Aluminum Foil Deflector Beanie website, click here. IF you scroll down and click "Testimonials," you'll see some familiar faces.

Believe it or not, we somehow managed to stay conscious enough to party into the wee hours of the night. Much of it is a blur to me; all I remember is getting a ride home from our neighbors and crawling into bed, oblivious to anything but a long-anticipated journey to Dreamland. The next thing I knew, it was well into the next afternoon, and I crawled out of bed to spend my first full day as a bona-fide full-time resident of Celebration.

My email address is celebration@mailblocks.com

My Celebration website is www.celebrationinfo.com

The Sound of Silence

One of the strangest things about being in my Chicago condo is the pervasive sound of silence. By that, I don't mean a total absense of sound. There are the usual creaks and groans of a decade-old building; the furnace blowing its hot, dry air to remind me that it is, indeed, still winter; voices and footsteps in the hallway of neighbors coming and going; and the roar of the occasional car in the parking lot.

But so many things are missing: the cheerful chirping of my bird, Bradley, greeting the morning sun; the cats' plantive meows that translate to "Play with me!", "Feed me!", or "Take me out for a walk!"; the sound of children's voices playing outside in t-shirts and shorts, heedless that in a Chicago March they'd still be bundled up; windchimes tinkling in the backyard; and (my favorite) the distant explosion of the Disney World fireworks every night.

As I lay in bed last night, the silence was deafening. It's always hard to get to sleep in a foreign environment like a hotel room, but somehow I didn't think that the same rule would apply to my old condo. It's a place where I'd spent nearly a decade of my life. How could it feel so foreign after only five weeks in Florida?

But there was no sense of familiarity at all. I missed the cats crawling all over the bed, jockeying for the bed position. The absense of windchimes reminded me that I had no yard, only a balcony overlooking the garages and dumpsters. I didn't hear the reassuring thump of the ice maker spitting out random cubes or the assorted nameless sounds that used to make me wonder before I finally got used to them.

When we first bought Duloc Manor and were spending scattered weekends there, I had that foreign feeling. The pets were absent, and I had no idea which of the symphony of strange sounds was being caused by which piece of machinery. The tick-tick-tick of the ceiling fan chain tapping the light fixture. The low electric hum of the air conditioner (or is that the refrigerator?). The spritzing sprinklers that come on at some ungodly hour of the night. These were all things that I learned to mentally catalog and classify in the "Safe" category, to be ignored as I drifted off to Dreamland. Soon enough, I didn't notice them on a conscious level any longer. The sprinklers didn't wake me up, and I didn't picture a crazed serial killer breaking in with the ice maker loudly disgorged another cube.

With the pets came a transplanted series of sounds; same noise, different environment. I was already used to the scratch-scratch of Stitch digging to China in the litterbox, the crackle of nails being sharpened on a sisal pole, the glub-glub of the goldfish gulping air on the surface of his bowl, and the squawking and metallic clanging of Bradley beating up the bird in his toy mirror. I had known those noises for year in Chicago, so it didn't seem odd to finally hear them in Florida.

It's odd how transient my Chicago condo seems now. It's like a wayside stop, a place to sleep while I mark the days before we return to Celebration. It seems odd that, after living in the condo for nearly ten years, my sense of "home" is gone.

There is one sound that I hear in Chicago that is conspicuously missing in Florida. It's the "woo hoo hoo" of the mourning doves that love to hang out on my balcony; occasionally, they even raise a family in my flower pots. Already, one appears to be building her nest. She doesn't realize how lucky she is that the feline predators are gone. In the past, when there were broods of baby birds, I remember the fun of trying to slip outside with my watering can to take care of my flowers without letting a furry body join me. "Birdie Incubation" was pretty much like "Cat TV." Back then, I had my old cats, Vinnie and Muse, and they would sit with their noses pressed up against the glass of the patio doors, making threatening machine-gun noises.

I enjoyed watching the birds, too. Mourning doves have a very interesting parenting process. During the day, mama sits on the eggs (and, eventually, the babies). Then, at night, dad comes to take his shift. The process by which they make the switch is fascinating. The "relief bird" flies onto the balony railing and slow sidles toward the nest. And I do mean slowly. Some nights I swear it took him 30 minutes to make it across the railing and relieve poor mama.

Because they nested in "active" flower boxes, I had to somehow get in some water at least once every couple of days. I would pour in the least amount possible to keep the flowers alive without soaking the poor birds. Sometimes the mourning dove would remain stonily in place, fixing me with a nervous stare. Other times, it would fly the coop temporarily, watching from the garage roofs below to see when I disappeared inside. Before the eggs were hatched, I worried if it took too long for the parent to return. How long could those tiny white baby-birds-to-be go without warmth? I would peek furtively out the window, anxious for the negligent dove to return. One year, only one of the eggs hatched, and I wondered whether my flower-watering had anything to do with it or whether it was simply a "dud."

This year, Mommy and Daddy Dove can raise their little family without any fear of feline interference. She won't even have to worry about the flowers, as my pots are empty and bare. Now I focus my gardening efforts in Florida, where I don't have to limit myself to six months of the year or less.

But other than the doves, all is silent as I sit on the couch and type. My husband had to go to work downtown, and I was so dead-tired that I didn't even hear him leave this morning. I guess that's a result of the 7 a.m. flight yesterday, combined with drinking iced tea after 6 p.m., which kept me up until the wee hours despite my inherent exhaustion.

It's Tuesday...only thee more days to go until I wing my way back to Florida. How good it will feel to be in a familiar space, among familiar sounds, to drown out the dreaded sounds of silence.

I can be contacted via email at celebration@mailblocks.com

My Celebration website is www.celebrationinfo.com

Welcome to the Windy City

I'm back in Chicago and already pining for Celebration. Today, my original home town is living up to its "Windy City" moniker. Normally, that applies more strongly to the politicians than to the weather, but today the wind is blowing strong. Thank goodness the temperature is in the 50s. A cold Chicago wind in January or February can cut through you like a knife and chill you to the core of your being. Now that it's March, the bitter weather is still possible but not as likely.

We flew on Southworst...er, Southwest, since Lame Duck Air (aka ATA) is no longer an option. My ATA Elite status card that I flew so many miles to obtain is now just a decoration in my wallet. At least we managed to give out most of our frequent flyer tickets before the ATA schedule turned all but non-existent out of Chicago. Now, my husband haunts the internet for the best fares, and lately Southwest has been pretty darned close. This time around, Ted was a few dollars cheaper, but he was willing to pay a penalty (and to not have assigned seats) in order to fly into Midway vs. O'Hare.

Personally, I prefer Midway, too, but I really don't mind O'Hare. Some people hate it for its massive size, but I am so used to it that I have no trouble negotiating the confusing maze of terminals. Midway used to be tiny, but after a major remodeling a couple of years ago, it's becoming a mini-O'Hare in its own rite. I like Midway better mainly because I am a South Sider, and I prefer the straight shot down Cicero Avenue vs. the tollbooths of 294 and pretzel inerchanges of 294.

Before this morning, I had no personal experience with Southwest upon which to draw. I had read plenty of internet horror stories about the pre-board abuse on Orlando flights. For those who are not familiar with the boarding process, no seats are assigned in advance. Instead, you check in online or at the airport and get a pass lettered A, B, or C. At the gate, you get into the proper line as designated by your letter. The A group boards first, then B, and then the straggler Cs. On a full flight, the last group doesn't always get a very good choice of seats.

If you check in shortly after midnight on the day of your flight, your chances of getting an A pass are good-to-excellent. Unfortunately, a gaggle of pre-boarders goes on ahead of the As. I say "unfortunately" because, although the group is supposed to be limited to people with children under 4 and those needing extra time or assistance (i.e. handicapped), the definition is applied very loosely. According to internet lore, it's not uncommon to see "three year olds" who have reached puberty, or sometimes even legal voting age. For the "crippled," passing over the threshhold of the Southwest 737s appears to work like the miraculous waters of the Lourdes shrine. As they approach the aircraft, they limp along on feeble limbs. Step through the door and Praise God! They are cured! Suddenly they can sprint for the prime seats like an Olympic champion. I know that some people on the internet can be prone to exaggeration, but I don't doubt that everything I've read about Southwest is true; I've seen it often enough on ATA, although it's not so bad if half the plane boards in front of you when you have a seat assignment.


My husband stayed up Sunday night, waiting for the witching hour so he could print those precious A passes. I was up too, although not willingly. We had a towncar scheduled to pick us up at 5 a.m. for the ride to the airport, so we knew we'd get precious little sleep. My husband had to work late anyway, but I wanted to get some extra shut-eye. Problem is, I just couldn't cross the threshhold into Dreamland until I knew that we were checked in. I have a very accurate internal alarm system, but it was too close to midnight by the time I crawled into bed; rather than have me zone out and then wake up again, my body simply kept me awake.

As it was, I was not looking forward to returning to Chicago. I knew I'd miss my bed full of purring felines, the sunshine and warm temperatures, and most of all, our home and friends. It's amazing how easily I've come to consider Celebration my home and to feel displaced when I'm not there. But I know that I have loose ends to tie up in Illinois, so I bit the bullet. After all, my poor husband had already put in two five-day stints while I had stayed behind at Duloc Manor; now it was time for mutual suffering.

Before bed, I had prepared the animals' food and locked Bradley (my bird) in the formal room so the cats couldn't torment him while we're gone. He's a wicked bird, so he'd encourage their misbehavior if he had half a chance. When our cat Muse (who has since gone to Kitty Heaven) had gotten old and weak, the feathered fiend would pick on her unmercifully. He'd wait until she tried to drink at her water dish, then fly down from his cage and peck her until she gave up. Then he'd cockily fly into the dish and take a bath! Mind you, he is just a little cocketiel, but he likes living dangerously. I don't want him teasing our newer, younger, and more agile cats unless I am around to referee.

I also packed my work bag (laptop and accessories), which clued the kitties that something was up. They get very flighty and agitated when they suspect that we are leaving. The next morning, Farquaad seemed to think that we were going to toss him back into the Kitty Karavan, as he wouldn't let either myself or my husband pick him up. Usually he is Mr. Love Bug and loves being petted and cuddled, but the memory of 24 hours caged in the back of Canyonero was enough to reverse his usual good nature.

The towncar showed up at 5 a.m. sharp. We locked up Duloc Manor and headed off to the B Terminal at MCO. The sky was still black as night, belying the dawn that was sneaking up just over the horizon. Traffic on the road was light, although the airport was starting to hop. At that hour, it is still a relatively sleepy place, but you can see that it's in the process of waking up into a crowded explosion of travelers.

We never bother to check luggage, so we wound our way through the Security maze and to the train that would take us to the gate. One of the TSA screeners was interested in our portable DVD player. He had been considering one, so he had some questions. Ours is just a cheapie generic Wal-Mart model, and after thousands upon thousands of air miles with no malfunctions, I can heartily recommend it. My husband bought it for me as a Chistmas present two years ago; ironically, he uses it more than I do.

The gate was virtually deserted, although there were two intrepid parties already camped out in the A line. It was about an hour before our flight's scheduled departure time, so we moved into the "cattle chute" to wait. Shortly thereafter, I was reminded that it really is a small world after all when one of my co-workers walked up to the line! She has a home a couple of towns over from Celebration, and she had been in Florida for the weekend. The time passed quickly as we chatted, and soon the non-existent lines had grown and expanded to the far reaches of the gate area. The length of the A line alone made me happy that I'd arrived early.

I've heard so much about Southwest's uber-efficient boarding process that I was anxious to witness it on my own. The gate agent anounced that boarding would start 15 minutes before our scheduled departure time. 15 minutes? With ATA, it always took at least half an hour. Of course, their 757s hold over 100 more people than a Southwest micro-737, but still...

At the appointed time, the dreaded Pre-Board from Hell was announced. Since it was early on a Monday morning, there were very few children traveling, so it was nothing like the nightmare I'd envisioned. A few families with kids in strollers rolled down the jetway, and that was it. But then a woman in her late twenties or early thirties strolled up with a grey-haired but able-bodied looking woman. They approached the pre-board chute, backed off, then approached again. Finally, they stode up and were promptly stopped by the gate agent. I heard a somewhat heated discussion about ages. Finally, the disgruntled duo gave up and headed back to their assigned cattle pen.

Since we were among the first As to board the aircraft, we pretty much had our choice of seats. I eyed the bulkhead, but my husband wanted to be able to stow his bag in front of him, so we took the middle and window seats in row two. I eyed the baby across the aisle with some apprehension, but my husband convinced me that getting off the plane quickly in Chicago outweighed the potential for eardrum discomfort. Turns out he was right; the baby (and its parents) slept soundly throughout the flight, with not even a peep.

Overall, I was not impressed with the Southwest method of boarding. It ended up taking closer to half an hour, meaning that we left the gate late. Perhaps they work that into their schedule, as we had an on-time arrival in Chicago. But half an hour is not an impressive boarding time for a 737; I've seen ATA do it zillions of times. I suspect that the "no assigned seats" policy has more to do with the cost of doing a massive computer system upheaval and retraining all of their agents than it has to do with physical boarding efficiency.

After being used to 757-300s for so long, a 737 seemed like a claustrophobic cigar tube to me. At least the seat pitch was fairly comfortable, and there was a decent amount of legroom (at least for a bargain airline). I settled in and had almost reached Dreamland when the flight attendants came around with vanilla wafers and a choice of coffee or orange juice. I had a quick snack and then resumed my slumber, which last until it was time to prepare for the landing.

The pilot warned us about the wind, so I was prepared for the bouncy, swaying descent. I am a paranoid flyer, but it's not so bad when I know what to expect. The wicked gusts battered our intrepid little aircraft as we descended over the city. The landing was just slightly rough, but certainly not the worst that I've experienced. Soon we had taxied to the gate and were making our way down the jetway to our "other" home city.

I was a little disappointed that none of the flight attendants exhibited the Southwest humor that I've heard so much about. No jokes at all; perhaps they figured that most of the passengers were still too sleepy to appreciate it. Oh well, maybe we'll witness some wit on our return trip on Friday.

I suspect that our Friday night flight will be closer to the special hell that I've read about it. It's the second-to-the-last direct flight to Orlando, and since it's the weekend, I'm sure it will be jam-packed with excited youngsters on their way to see Mickey. It will be interesting to see if they enforce an age limit and if they allow the whole neighborhood to board with each infant and toddler.

My husband headed off the the train station, as he had to go right to work downtown. Meanwhile, I started my quest to locate the rental car counters. They were scattered around the baggage claim level, and of course Budget (the company that William Shatner had seen fit to link me up with via Priceline) was around an obscure corner. Thankfully, the line was minimal, but it still took forever because the agent was having a devil of a time with my reservation. Apparently, she couldn't get something to print; then, after trying to redo it a couple of times, she discovered that it had printed after all.

I thought that Orlando was bad for trying to sucker people into buying the insurance coverage and pre-paying for a full tank of gas, but Midway made MCO look tame. Not only did they try to strong-arm me into buying all of that malarkey, but they also pushed hard to sell me an upgrade. I suspected that it was because they didn't have an economy cars left, and I was correct. I ended up with a free upgrade from a micro-Hyundai to a Pontiac Grand Prix.

It felt so odd to be driving a rental car in Chicago. My husband's Pimpin' Family Truckster (i.e. Aztek) is still at our condo, but there is no cheap/easy way to get there from the airport. I have family who would pick me up, but I don't want to saddle them with that responsibility on a regular basis. As long as I can get a good deal on Priceline, a rental car is a good solution.

The sky was murky, but the temperature was hovering in the 50s. I haven't lost my Midwestern heartiness yet, so it actually felt pretty good. I drove down Cicero Avenue and made good time getting to the condo, since traffic was amazingly sparse. I shoehorned a week's worth of mail out of the box and made my way upstairs. I thought perhaps I'd feel a small swell of happiness, or at least familiarity, once I finally opened the door, but there was nothing. The only feeling was a nagging sense of loneliness that there was no pack of felines to greet me.

The house looked just as I'd last seen it, with everything scattered about in a mute testimony to our frenzy to get the Kitty Karavan on the road over a month ago. Most of my plants were still alive, and I did have to smile as I gazed at my beloved collection of comedy and tragedy masks hanging on the walls. That's probably the only thing I really miss, but I have plenty of wall space reserved in the stairwell of Duloc Manor.

I plunked down on the couch to boot up my laptop and get to work. How strange it felt not to have a cat (or two or three) rubbing up against me and trying to lie on the keyboard. No bird screeching in the background or flying over to perch on my shoulder and taunt the cats from his protected vantage point.

Oh well, only four more days and I'll be home in Celebration once again.

My email address is celebration@mailblocks.com

My Celebration website is www.celebrationinfo.com

The Reluctant Chicagoan

Just five weeks ago, Celebration, Florida, became my primary permanent home. Prior to that, I spent four decades living in the Chicago area. I was born and bred on the south side of the city, in a neighborhood called Roseland just over the border from the suburbs. Over the course of forty years, I rarely lived more than 10 miles from the original cookie cutter Chicago bungalow where I spent my infancy and early childhood years. Eventually, we moved a couple of miles away, to my grandparents' house. It was over the suburban border but still only two blocks from the city limits. Then, when I got my own apartment, I moved a couple more miles south, in the neighboring suburb where my brother's family had settled and where I had attended high school. All in all, it was a geographically sheltered existence.

In the Chicago area, your identity is directionally defined. Other than a brief stint at my husband's townhouse in the western suburbs, I have always been a proud South Sider (although, dare I admit it, I prefer the Cubs over the Sox; on the South Side, that is an offense punishable by public stoning). Think of the Super Fans on "Saturday Night Live" yammering on about "Da Bulls" and "Da Bears" and you'll have a good idea of my background.

Even my jobs were within a rather small hunk of worldly real estate. I resisted the temptation to get a job "downtown" in the Chicago Loop. Sure, that's where the big bucks could be found, but for me it wasn't worth a 60 to 90 minute train ride each way. Thus, my first three jobs were all within a mile of my apartment. My next job was a whopping ten miles from my apartment, but eventually my husband and I bought a condo within walking distance of it.

Having lived in such a small parcel of the world for 40 years, I expected to be a little homesick once I moved south to the Sunshine State. True, Florida had been like a second home to me for a long time anyway. With all our visits to Disney World and myriad Disney cruises, my husband and I felt just as at home here as we did back in Illinois. And goodness knows, we are both intrepid travelers. Even though we both hail from the Chicago area, we share a wanderlust that has taken us from the water parks of Wisconsin Dells to the roller coasters of Sandusky, Ohio, to the mountains of Estes Park, Colorado, and the glaciers of Alaska, with lots of destinations in between.

But no matter how long or how far we roamed, we always returned to our little corner of Chicago. We bantered the idea of moving to Florida within ten years or so, but it always seemed like a far off dream, one of those elusive "Someday..." daydreams. Then, all of a sudden, Jupiter somehow aligned with Mars and we found and fell in love with Celebration. The ten-year plan suddenly became "right now," and the lifelong Illinoisians were suddenly Floridians.

Now, early tomorrow morning, I will be making my first trip back to Chicago since the Kitty Karavan marked our official, permanent move in January. I thought that I would be looking forward to it, but now it's just the opposite. You'd think that, at worst, I'd be neutral, but unfortunately, as the time draws nearer, I find myself dreading it! I've never felt even the slightest pang of homesickness here in Celebration, but I know that I'm going to be pining Florida the entire time that I'm in Illinois.

I don't have to stay too long; just Monday morning through Friday evening. My husband has to go downtown every day while we're there, but I can still do my work from home. I also need to do some more packing and to bring some order to the messy condo. I left it in a frightful state on that night five weeks ago as my husband and I hustled out the door to embark on 24 hours of Road Trip Hell. My mind was focused more on how we were going to fit all of the animals into the Aztek and how we'd get the cats into their cage without any feline escapees than on tidying up the mess that we'd left while packing. Now, it's time to pay the piper. I know that I'll be lonely for the cats, but by the time I'm done vaccuming, I'll probably be able to construct a new feline from the mass of hair that is surely lurking in the carpets there.

There is one good thing about returning to Chicago. My horses still live there, and even though I can't do much with them in the winter, I still miss them. Actually, I don't do much with Cochise anymore, even when I'm there. He's nearly 30 years old, which is like being an octagerian in human years. He looks and acts great for his age, regularly pummeling my younger horse, Figment, when Figgie gets too cocky. But at this point, I figure that he's earned his retirement. I pet him, groom him, and slip him a few carrots, but he doesn't have to do any actual work.

Of course, I worked Cochise long and hard when both he and I were much younger. I used to attend local horse shows, and because hunter/jumper was more popular than Western in our neck of the woods, I taught poor Cochise to jump. Proving that Appaloosas are a versatile breed, he became quite a good little jumper and an enjoyable English Pleasure horse. He won plenty of Western Pleasure ribbons, too, and when I wasn't busy at shows, he was a joy to ride on the forest preserve trails.

Cochise is one of those rare horses that has a comfortable trot. Many equines give you the impression that you're sitting on top of a jack hammer, but 'Chise could do a jog trot that was as smooth as silk. Thus, when riding on the trails, I rarely even bothered to saddle him. I would strap on a bareback pad, and off we'd go.

In those days, both he and I had a streak of foolhardiness. I used to take him swimming in the quarry, which he loved, and I'd jump him over picnic tables just for fun. And of course, I never wore a riding helmet during any of my crazy stunts. I look back now and shudder, amazed that I'm still alive and still have use of all my limbs.

Even though he is an Appaloosa, a breed that is noted for loud, spotted coats, Cochise is a "low key" Appy. His coat pattern is known as snowflake, meaning that it is mostly solid bay (brown), with just a few white flecks on the rump. Granted, those flecks have multiplied quite a bit now that he's an old timer, but for years he was an incognito Appy.

Conversely, my younger horse, Figment, has a coat that's loud and proud. He is chestnut (orangish brown), with a white rump and huge chestnut spots. Cochise's ancestry can be traced all the way back to the Nez Perce Indians, originators of the Appaloosa breed. On his pedigree, his great-great-grandma is listed simply as "Indian mare." But poor Figgie is something of a mutt; although by sight you could tell that his mother was obviously an Appy, his father was an Appendix Quarter Horse. That means Quarter Horse crossed with Thoroughbred (i.e. the race horse breed). Figment got the build of a miniature Thoroughbred, and also something of the speed and temperment. He is a very spirited young horse and does crazy things like running full-tilt at the fence, barely stopping at the last minute, and galloping through the snow in the winter before literally flinging himself down on the ground from a dead run to roll.

Figment is a smart horse, too, and he has a knack for doing tricks. He can chase and dribble a ball soccer-style, pick up a bucket, kick it over, and put his legs up on a stool on command. He would be great in the animal show at Universal Studio. I am not a big fan of animals in the circus, as their living conditions in tiny cages makes me cringe. But Figgie would be the perfect "entertainment animal." He revels in attention, and he'll do virtually anything as long as a treat is involved. I work him at liberty, meaning that he is loose in a huge corral and can run off at any time. But as long as I am willing to "play" with him and to hand out plenty of goodies, he is quite content.

Some day I'll bring Figment to Florida, but at this point I think Cochise is too old and crochety to adapt to new surrounds. The horses live at my friend's house, where they get excellent care. Even when I'm not around to work with them, they are let out to run in an acre corral almost every day. With such a good home, there is no rush to uproot them and relocate them 1200 miles.

When we get back to Chicago on Monday, it will most likely be too cold and/or muddy to do much with the horses. I'll just stop out to distribute carrots and a good grooming. It will be nice to see some animals, since the condo is going to be more like a tomb without the cats and bird to create the usual ruckus.

While I'm in town, I'll stop over to see my co-workers, too. I think of them as former co-workers, but that's not entirely accurate. I still work for the same company, so technically not much has changed. But in reality, it's very different when you're working from home, several states removed from the office. With the telephone and email, I still have regular contact, but it will be good to see everyone in person again.

We'll also link up with my brother and sister-in-law for dinner. I don't really miss them when we're in Florida, as cell phones with free nationwide long distance make regular contact a breeze. My brother is a truck driver, and anyone who is related to someone in that profession knows that over-the-road drivers get bored. And when they get bored, they get out their cell phone and start dialing. Once my sister-in-law gets sick of him, or gets a case of cauliflower ear, my husband and I are next on his speed dial list. We may not see him as frequently in body, but he's still there in voice.

For our other friends in Illinois, we are becoming quite good at coordinating get-togethers with our upcoming weeks in Chicago. We also have tickets for several plays ("Lion King" and "Wicked" among them), so we'll be returning to our old stomping grounds for those. I don't feel like we've left Chicago permanently; rather, it's like a dual residency of convenience. Celebration, Florida, is my primary home, but I'll always still have some vestigate of roots in the Chicago area.

On the weeks when we have get-togethers with Illinois friends or other outings planned, I don't think it will be as difficult to leave Celebration as it is this time around. On this visit, we're not doing anything special other than seeing my brother, so I'll have lots more free time to pine for the Sunshine State. They say that home is where your heart is, and no matter where I was born, my heart belongs in Florida.

My email address is celebration@mailblocks.com

My Celebration website is www.celebrationinfo.com

Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction

Ever since it was first announced by Disney, much has been written about the town of Celebration. And much of that writing is fiction, even when it is purported to be "fact."

A couple of years ago, there was a story about our fair town in Playboy magazine. It was a fictionalized account, and at least it was labeled as such. The story, "Jubilation," was written by T. Coraghessan Boyle, best known for the novel, "The Road to Wellville." His fictionalized biography of Kellogg's Conflakes inventor Dr. John Harvey Kellogg is better known as a movie than as a book. The film adaptation had lots of star power, including Anthony Hopkins as the good doctor; Matthew Broderick and Bridget Fonda as William and Eleanor Lightbody, a wealthy young couple who comes for treatment to Kellogg's trendy "sanitarium" (a turn-of-the-century version of celebrities going to the Betty Ford Clinic); and John Cusack as Charles Ossining, who dreams of striking it rich on the coat-tails of the health food industry.

But the best role is arguably Dana Carvey's portrayal of George Kellog, the doctor's rebellious adopted son. In the movie, as in real life, Dr. Kellogg adopted somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 children. Most are grateful, but not little Georgie, who was rescued from squalor as he crouched next to the dead body of his prostitute mother. As a boy, he defies the doctor at every turn; as a man, he lives on the streets and only shows up at the "San" (the affectionate name for Kellogg's clinic) to shake his dad down for booze money.

The movie, like the book, is loaded with dark humor, but somehow it comes across much better on the big screen than on the printed page. Usually I prefer books to movies; one big exception is Stephen King's "The Shawshank Redemption." Both movie and book are great, but the film version has a much more satisfying component to its ending. The print version is more realistic, but sometimes it feels so good to see the "bad guy" get what's coming to him.

Similarly, I find the outcome of Dr. Kellogg's relationship with his son to be much more heartening in the film. The doctor seems almost sinister in the novel; on screen, he comes across as more on the eccentric side rather than calculating like his counterpart in print.

Just as Boyle's book is based very, very loosely on the true store of Dr. Kellogg, "Jubliation" is based on the version of Celebration that is bantered about in the popular media rather than any sort of reality.

In reading the story, I doubt that he ever even bothered to set foot in our town. It echoes all the usual half-truths, Truman Show/Stepford innuendos, and silly rumors about Nazi-esque covenants and enforcement.

In reality, you can see that the "white curtains only" retriction is B.S. simply by driving around town. True, I've never personally seen Shocking Pink, Cobalt Surprise, or Screaming Yellow Zonkers as a curtain or blind color, but there are plenty of wood tones and other sensible non-white window treatments. For the non-conformists, I've even seen some stained glass panels. I have those, too, but mine are mounted outside of the blinds. That's not due to a conformist mindset or fear of the "Window Police." It's for more practice reasons; in our old home, when my husband mounted some stained glass between the window shade and pane, bolting it into the window frame, he indavertently managed to crack the window.

I find the variety of home colors to be quite fascinating too. Up until now, my "favorites" have been Light Turquoise and Bright Mustard, but a new one will be cropping up as I type this. As we drove down the street this morning, we noticed that a massive Victorian mansion that is currently under construction was being painted Pale Violet. When it's done, it will definitely be a standout on a road dominated by whites, browns, and bricks.

In "Jubilation," a magenta race car manages to create all sorts of trauma. Puh-leese! No other vehicle could ever has as much character, or cause as much conflict in town, as Skippy, the trusty, rusty old Dodge Dart that used to greet visitors as they drove over the entrance bridge. Although many would have liked to see "him" gone, Skippy skirted the restrictions by remaining legally plated and tagged and by moving around just enough to show that he could move.

Eventually, either a Skippy foe or a random vandal perpetrated some cruel acts of violence on the poor car, slashing the tires and stealing the license plate. Not long after, the owners moved and took the old Dart with them. This is the Cliff Notes version of the "Skippy Saga," but the whole true story is much more amusing and creative than anything in Boyle's tome.

He could also have added the fact that a huge motor home was parked out in front of one of the largest, fanciest (some might say "gaudiest") homes in town for a length far exceeding what the covenants allow last year. I saw it frequently, since it was on the main street leading to my home. Each day as I drove by, I hoped that Randy Quaid might greet me, cheerfully yelling, "The shitter's full!" as he brandished a hose in the sewer, but no such luck. Eventually, the motor home disappeared.

Boyle rehashes the old, tired stories of the house lottery and the involvement of the Walt Disney Company and its icon, Mickey Mouse. In "Jubilation," they have morphed into Gulpy Gator and the Contash Corporation. He also dredges up general Florida stereotypes by having a little boy snatched out of a boat on the dowtown lake and devoured by a hungry gator.

Had he done some real research, he would have found a much more interesting "lake tidbit." In another Celebration lake (actually more of a retention pond), five stolen cars have been fished out. Even stranger, so have several dead people, including a family from Massachusetts that had been missing for two months. Another family, from the U.K., almost became victims of the "Killer Lake" but managed to abandon ship...er, car before sinking into its murky, deadly depths.

Stranger still, the father of one of the victims apparently sued the engineering firm that built the pond and the town of Celebration for negligence. The negligent bastards failed to to protect his intoxicated daughter from speeding, running a stop sign, and failing to recognize the body of water in front of her or the fact that driving into it would not be a good idea. I haven't been able to discover whether the suit went through or the ultimate disposition of the case. I do know that these days you'd have to make a concerted effort to drive past a top light (as opposed to the old stop signs), over a curb and through a massive sign before joining the previous victims of the deadly waters. How much more exciting than a run-of-the-mill gator chomping!

Last but not least is the hurricane part of the story. In "Jubilation," the town is pretty much leveled by a massive hurricane. Back when I first read it in 2003, I shared the usual sentiment: "They don't come this far inland." In just one year's time I would learn to take the cliche "truth is stranger than fiction" to heart as we got struck by not one, but three hurricanes within mere weeks of each other.

Thankfully, in Celebration most of the damage was limited to the trees (and to the unfortunately homes and garages on which they toppled). But all you had to do was drive around Kissimmee and Poinciana to see just how lucky we had been; the blue-tarped roofs and tumbling-down houses showed just how vicious and merciless the storms were. We could easily have shared the same fate as the fictional "Jubilation" if it weren't for the direction of the storms and the strict post-Hurricane Andrew building code that dictates protective measures in new construction.

I could go on and on with tales of the "real" Celebration that would make "Jubilation" even more of a snoozer, but alas, other responsibilities beckon. Besides, I doubt that more than a handful of people have ever read Boyle's story anyway. No matter what the guys say, "Playboy" and "reading the articles" are not two phrases that go hand-in-hand.

I can be reached via email at celebration@mailblocks.com

My Celebration website is www.celebrationinfo.com

Special Delivery

At long last, Canyonero (my Aztek) is whole again. After limping along with only three seats ever since the Kitty Karavan left Chicago, seat #4 is back in its rightful place.

First, I suppose I should explain my SUV's name. I am the kind of person who bestows my pets with unusual monikers (my cats have included Know-It-All, Muse, Vincent Van Kitty, Tooncinator, Stitch, and Farquaad), and I also name certain inanimate objects when it strikes my fancy and off-beat sense of humor. My home, of course, is Duloc Manor in honor of that town in Shrek that is not unlike downtown Celebration. When I was little, my family had the odd habit of naming cars, too. Usually the name was somehow related to the make (for example, our two Chevys were "Big C" and "Little C"). The first car that I ever owned myself was an ancient, beat-up Plymouth Fury, so of course it had to be called "Christine."

When I got married, it turned out that my husband is a car namer, too. We worked our way through a variety of named vehicles, including his-and-her Neons named Bruiser (in honor of its odd bluish-purplish color) and Twoey/Audrey II (ever see "Little Shop of Horrors?").

As time wore on, I realized that I was one of the few people still driving an actual car as opposed to a big, gallompin' SUV. I can't stand huge, macho, look-at-me-I'm-so-conformist-cool vehicles, but I also did't want to be crushed like a sardine in my tiny metal Neon-can. Thus, when it was time to replace Twoey, I started the search for an SUV, but with a niggling sense of reluctance.

Back then, in the early 2000s, most of the big gas-guzzlers looked pretty much alike. Then, a hideously ugly rebel vehicle burst on the scene: The Pontiac Aztek. The first time I saw one, while watching "Survivor" a year or two before Twoey's demise, I gagged and said to my husband, "I would never drive one of those." I should have remembered that God loves a challenge and has a wicked sense of humor.

Thus, when it was time for car shopping, I somehow ended up at a Pontiac dealer. I was leaning more towards something like a Suburu Forester, Honda CRV, or Hyundai Santa Fe, but my nephew said, "You really should check out the Pontiac Vibe." There was a dealer very close to home, so I figured "What the heck."

I wasn't too impressed by the Vibe, and as I described the features that I wanted to the car salesman (side airbags, space for bikes, reconfigurable seats), he said, "You know, you really should look at the Aztek." When I was done rolling around on the ground with laughter and scorn, he pointed out, "A test drive is free." Sure, he had a point; I decided to give it a try just so I could say that I'd actually been behind the wheel of the World's Ugliest Vehicle.

Amazingly, I loved it! The Aztek had a smooth, car-like ride, tons of space, removable seats, and a cool rolling tray in the cargo area. The tailgate actually has drink holders and imprints for your butt for easy tailgate parties. And, most important, side air bags were standard on the package that I liked. Reluctantly, I added the Aztek to the running; then, the more I thought about it, the more I began to like the idea. What better vehicle for an SUV-hater like me than the most hideous model available?

I don't make hasty decisions when purchasing a car. I still had other vehicles to compare, and once I made my decision, there would be lots more research to complete. I am the kind of buyer that dealers hate; I come armed with invoice prices, holdback, reviews, etc., knowing exactly what I want and what I'm willing to pay. I compared all the cars on my list, but nothing came close to the Aztek in features for the price. Sigh! I should have known better than to challenge God. Oh well, I reasoned that if I was driving, it's not like I'd have to look at the ugly, snub-butted outside of the vehicle. Thus, my search narrowed to find the particular Aztek that would meet my requirements. I don't care much about color (unless it's Survivor Yellow or Traffic Cone Orange...ugh!); I'm more concerned with getting the internal options that I want.

I found a nice maroon Aztek equipped to my specifications. I was still a little hesitant about buying such a big, ugly vehicle, even with all my rationalizations. The dealer let me take it home for the weekend so I could take it for a spin around my neighborhood and on the highway, exposing it to real-world driving conditions. It turned in a stellar performance, and I was amazed at its great gas mileage. The next day, it became the latest addition to our automotive family.

I had a vehicle, so now I needed a name. As a die-hard Simpsons fan, what could be more fitting than Canyonero? In case you're not familiar with the Simpsons in general or the episode known as "The Last Temptation of Krust" in particular, there is a musical ad for an uber-SUV called the Canyonero that goes like this:

Can you name the truck with four-wheel drive?
Smells like a steak and seats thirty-five!
Canyonero! Canyonero!

Well, it goes real slow with the hammer down,
It's a country-fried truck endorsed by a clown!
Canyoneroooo! Yeah, Canyonero!

Twelve yards long, two lanes wide,
Sixty-five tons of American pride!
Canyonero! Canyonero!

Top of the line in utility sports,
Unexplained fires are a matter for the courts!
Canyonero! Canyonero!

She blinds everybody with her super-high beams;
She's a squirrel-squashing, deer-smackin', drivin' machine!
Canyonero! Canyonero!

Click here to hear the Canyonero song for yourself via .wav file.

Granted, an Aztek isn't twelve yards long and two lanes wide, but after driving Excels and Neons, it sure felt like it to me. Thus, my hideous new vehicle was christened Canyonero, although my brother insisted on calling it the Family Truckster, ala "National Lampoon's Vacation." To appease him, when my husband bought an almost identical used version of my Aztek a couple of years later, we named it "Pimpin' Family Truckster" (the "pimpin'" comes from the giant decal and window guards that the previous owner tricked it out with).

As time passed, more and more ugly vehicles came out, and my Aztek went from head-turning novelty to just another ho-hum SUV. Meanwhile, I became spoiled by its ability to handle all sorts of cargo, and I knew that I was a permanent big-vehicle convert (although it will always be the ugliest anti-SUV that I can find).

When it came time to bring the animals to Florida, Canyonero's ability to have its back seats removed became crucial. If we hadn't been able to remove one seat, there's no way that we could have wedged in the cat and bird cages, as well as the other necessary items to be moved.

The gap in the back didn't bother me, but it drove my husband crazy. He wanted to get the missing seat down to Celebration as soon as possible, and it eventually became a vendetta for him. He considered bringing it on the airplane as checked luggage until he realized that it was too heavy and would incur a steep penalty charge. Then he started focusing on how to mail it or ship it via a delivery service like UPS or Fex Ex.

Eventually, I realized that it would be nice to have Canyonero "whole" again, especially if we wanted to drive somewhere with other people. The point was illustrated when we went to Disney World with our neighbors for dinner. They don't know their way around WDW property too well, but we couldn't take my vehicle because it would only seat three in its altered condition. Thus I ended up driving their car, something that makes me supremely nervous. Not only do I have to be careful of my own road manners, but I also have to watch out for all the crazed tourists and speed demon locals.

After that jaunt, when my husband informed me that he wanted to ship the seat via UPS, I finally acquiesced. The next time he was in Chicago, he somehow managed to drag it to the local UPS Store, planning to have them pack it as well as deliver it. He balked when he discovered that it would be nearly $100 just for the boxing. He asked if the seat could simply be shrink-wrapped; it's not like it's easily breakable. But no, the agent insisted that it had to be enclosed in a container.

On his next trip, hubby purchased some moving boxes himself for a fraction of the cost and created some weird sort of Frankenstein packaging. He entrusted it to the tender mercies of UPS right before he returned to Celebration. As soon as he got back to Florida, he obsessively tracked the package via the internet, following its route from Illinois through Nashville, TN, to Atlanta, GA, to Jacksonville, FL, and finally to Celebration via a brief stay in Orlando.

He knew that it was due to show up on Monday, and sure enough, late that morning the doorbell chimed, scattered the cats to the four winds. The driver was already back at his truck before I reached the door, but there on the porch was Canyonero's missing "limb." The box was extremely battered and full of holes, but its precious was intact. My husband was like a kid in a candy shop; he immediately had to run outside and restore the seat to its rightful place.

Now Canyonero is whole again. Instead of just three people, we can transport up to five (if they are willing to be seen in an Aztek, of course). I sort of miss the extra cargo space within such easy reach. I know that I can remove the seat any time, but I never bother; I just toss my stuff all the way in the back.

Maybe, in the cosmic scheme of things, I was meant to get an Aztek. Perhaps it wasn't just God's sense of humor. Maybe He knew that someday we'd need a vehicle with enough space and reconfiguration ability to transport our menagerie of pets. At the time that I bought Canyonero, moving to Celebration had never crossed my mind; I never would have dreamed that someday in the not-too-distant future I'd be driving 1200 miles cross-country in the Atlanta ice storm with Noah's Ark crammed in behind me.

Canyonero brought us safely home to Florida, and now all of Canyonero is home with us too.

You can reach me via email at celebration@mailblocks.com

My Celebration website is www.celebrationinfo.com

Rain Revisited

Yesterday, I thought the rain was over, but it had only just begun. Late on Saturday night, as I was settling down in bed, I could hear it pouring down outside my open window. The skies had looked threatening all day, but I thought that it was going to turn out to be an idle threat. Apparently the downpour was waiting for the cover of night to cut loose.

Thankfully, the rain wasn't blowing in through the window, so I was able to leave it open. I just love to sleep with a fresh breeze blowing in. Soon enough it will be too hot to survive without air conditioning; the house will be a sealed, icy tomb all summer. I want to enjoy the "window weather" during these precious months when the windows can be wide open to let in the fresh air.

The cats were fascinated by the falling water. We have a cat tree in front of one of the master bedroom windows that gives them a perfect vantage point to see the back door awning and the yard below. They love to be by the open window just about anytime, but the rainstorm made it even more interesting for them. For me, the sound of the rainfall was soothing; it lulled me right to sleep.

In the morning, the rain was still coming down. It was heavy enough to create a waterfall running off the back door awning, which the cats were watching as though it was an exciting television show. My husband looked up the local radar online, and we were under a patch of bright green, indicating lots of precipitation. I knew that we wouldn't be doing any outside activities today.

We slept in, or rather my husband did. I woke up first and spent some quiet time reading. I had stocked up on some new true crime books yesterday, so I plunged deep into an Ann Rule tome. She has written such excellent books as "The Stranger Beside Me" (the story of her personal experience with executed killer, Ted Bundy, with whom she worked on a suicide crisis line) and "Small Sacrifices (the chillinh tale of Diane Downs, who shot her three children and tried to blame a "shaggy haired stranger" for the cold-blooded act). A co-worker introduced me to Ann Rule's books several years ago, which eventually led to a general taste for true crime. I think it appeals to the psychologist in me; I am continually amazed at the acts some human beings are capable of, and through these books, I try to understand how and why. Unfortunately, there is no definitive answer, but the books are as addictive as a train wreck. You know that it's horrible...you know that you shouldn't look...yet you are compulsively drawn in.

I eventially got my husband hooked on true crime, too. He loves televisions shows like "CSI," so I knew that real-world investigations would appeal to him. My favorite books are the ones that run 400, 500, or even 600 pages and go into the most minute details of the investigation and trial, as well as into the backgrounds of the victim(s) and killer(s). I never get bored with even the most mundane details. Every fact, no matter how minor, is a brush stroke that is integral to the creation of the entire portrait.

I knocked out a couple of hundred pages in a book called "If You Really Loved Me." I thought I had all of Ann Rule's books, but amazingly, I somehow skipped over that one. Now I was devouring it voraciously, eager to plow through the 600 hundred pages. As I read it, I realized that I'd previously read a book about the same crime, written by a different author. Many books cover a case in a very cursory manner; I like the ones that do a more lengthy, thorough job.

I also enjoy biographies; two of my favorites are the biography of Dave Thomas, the late founder of the Wendy's hamburger chain, and "My Life Without God," by Bill Murray (no, not the Saturday Night Live alumnus...the son of famous atheist Madayln Murray O'Hair and the subject of the court case banning school prayer). I also love the "Princess Sultana" books, which tell the true story of a female member of the Saudi royal family. They offer a frightening portrait of what it's like to be a woman in the Middle East.

I haven't been able to bring too many of my books from Chicago to Celebration yet. I have a volumnous collection, so I'll have to figure out how to fit in some bookcases first.

Eventually my husband decided to join the World of the Waking. On Sundays, I like to go out for breakfast; my favorite choice is Max's (Market Street Cafe) in downtown Celebration, but they only serve items from their breakfast menu until 11:30 p.m. Since my husband had slept in past 11, there was no way we could make it, short of skipping our showers and speeding over in our nightclothes. I figured that might be viewed as an anti-social act by our fellow patrons, so I made an alternate choice.

International House of Pancakes was definitely out, since I had a scarring experience there recently. Between waiting over an hour for food and encountering the second-most filthy restroom that I've ever seen in my life (the most filthy was at a beach on Lake Erie in Ohio), I have no desire to go back to IHOP in the near future. Besides, their version of blueberry pancakes means regular pancakes with fruit topping slathered over them. Max's does it the right way, putting the blueberries in the batter.

We've had better luck at the Waffle House, which is right across from Celebration, in the same area as IHOP. It's a chaotic place; you seat yourself, which can be a mob scene when the restaurant is crowded. The menu is somewhat limited, but they serve real waffles, and we usually have good luck with the service. I wish they served blueberry waffles, but your choices are only plain or with pecans. Oh well, by the time we got out of the house it was well after 1 p.m., so beggars can't be choosers.

On the way, we passed downtown Celebration and noticed that one intrepid merchant had braved the rain to set up at the Sunday Farmer's Market. Actually, on this day, that one merchant was the whole Farmer's Market. They were selling fresh produce and actually had a fair amount of customers. I pulled over, and my husband ran out to stock up on juicy, ripe tomatoes and cucumbers.

Once of the advantages of living in Florida is fresh fruit and vegetables all year 'round. My husband and I are both tomato connesuiers, and we hate the dry, tasteless red balls that are passed off in the Midwest during the winter. We always paid more for the "vine ripened" variety, which are a little better, but nothing beats a fresh tomato just plucked out of the yard. Now we can finally enjoy the bounty of a warm climate, even in February.

We continued on to the Waffle House, where only a couple of other booths were occupied. Oddly enough, the service was slower than I've ever seen it, even when it is crowded. There were lots of workers, but I'm not sure exactly what they were doing. I ordered a pecan waffle combo, which comes with bacon, grits, eggs, and toast. I love getting sunny side up eggs and smooshing toasted bread in the runny yolks...mmmmm! A cholesterol nightmare, but a genuine taste treat. I only nibble at the bacon and grits, and I don't touch the egg whites, but I clean up every bit of the toast and golden yolks.

My husband wasn't in the mood for breakfast food, so he had ordered some kind of steak melt. He prounouced it very tasty, with nice, lean meat.

After we ate, we planned to run over to the Racetrack gas station next door to pick up a Sunday newspaper. I own a cockatiel, Bradley, so I buy a paper every couple of weeks to keep him well supplied. When we are home, we allow him to be outside of his cage. He has a wooden jungle gym on top, but I festoon it with newspaper to help keep it clean. For some reason, he also likes to chew on newsprint and create elaborate rippled patterns, using his beak like a pair of pinking shears.

Of course, the moment we stepped out of the restaurant, the light drizzle immediately became a drenching shower. It reminded me of that scene in "The Truman Show" where the downpour follows the title character. We jogged over to the store and managed to grab a newspaper and get it back into the car with minimal sogginess.

Eventually, the rain died down. My husband loves to bike, and he was getting cabin fever, so he took advantage of the lull to take his bicycle out. I took one look at our bushes bending in the driving wind and decided not to join him.

One of our neighbors called to see if we wanted to come over to watch the Academy Awards. Unfortunately, my husband had been negligent in his work all weekend, so now, on Sunday night, he had to make up for it. We went out for a quick dinner at T.G.I. Fridays in the Crossroads, across from Downtown Disney, and then he chained himself to his computer upstairs. But I know he was sneaking a few glances at the awards show because he hollered down to me to turn it on for the fashion award (Edna from "The Incredibles" was presenting it) and also to announced that "The Incredibles" had won the Best Animated Film award. I breathed a sigh of relief; I was afraid that "Shrek II" might take it. I liked "Shrek," but I love "The Incredibles," with its message against celebrating mediocrity and hiding your light under a barrel. Along with "Lilo and Stitch," it's my favorite Disney movie of all time.

It looks like the rain is over; I'm sure that the sun will be back on Monday, just in time for our return to work. The bright rays will dance enticingly outside the windows while we are stuck working inside. Such is God's ironic sense of humor. Oh well, I'll never complain too much about rain in February. I'll just remind my self: It could be worse...it could be snow.

My email address is celebration@mailblocks.com

My Celebration website is www.celebrationinfo.com

It's Raining, It's (Not) Pouring

Finally, the end of the drought is in sight.

For the last several weeks, the dry season has been taken to extremes. It's been so bad that the brush fire danger has been rising to frightening levels. I love the sunshine, but at some point the rain does need to fall. The other day, we did get an evening shower, but it wasn't much of a match for pervasive dryness.

On Friday morning, I woke up to cloudy, gray skies and knew that the rain had come at last. Sure enough, it pattered down steadily for most of the day. It wasn't one of those monsoons that drenches Florida during the rainy season, and there was no thunder or lightning, but at least it was enough to bring the fire risk back down to reasonable levels.

I was stuck at home working, but it probably would have been a prime day to go to the theme parks. Epcot and Disney MGM have a number of indoor attractions, as does Universal Studio for those in Celebration who care to drive a little farther. When the rain chases the crowds away, the waits are pretty much non-existent for brave souls who are willing to don a plastic poncho and potentially get damp. I'm willing to risk a little wetness in exchange for an absence of lines. But alas, I had to work on my regular job; then, later in the day, calls for my travel agency came in steadily, so that kept me occupied well into the evening.

Since I live in a Craftsman-style triplex, rainy days are always a special challenge when I want to use my back door. Due to the oddly illogical design of the back awning, it turns into my own personal version of Niagara Falls whenever we get anything heavier than a drizzle. I am not exaggerating, as the mildew on my back door and doormat would attest, and the green creeping crud is trying to take over the porch and the sidewalk too. Ever see Stephen King's "Creepshow," with that weird green gunk consuming the people? That's what I think I'll be facing someday. I fight it with bleach and Simple Green, but once the rainy season comes, it quickly turns into a losing battle.

Several months back, I wondered how other owners of similar houses dealt with the issue. Once day I went over to Roseville Corner, which has lots of duplicates of my home. Surprise, surprises...every one of them is equipped with gutters, not only on the houses, but also on the garages. They were present on the model that we used as the basis to select our home, too. They were apparently a standard item that somehow was "forgotten" when our place was built. I am currently going around in circles with our builder, Cambridge, on this issue, and the green gunk may win out and consume me before it ever gets resolved.

Actually, Cambridge was very good about handling the miscellaneous punch list items that came up early in our occupancy, while they were still working in Celebration. But now that builder is done here in town, and suddenly their customer service level has plummeted. Besides the gutters, we have two simple items that they need to handle (a cracked floor tile and a non-functioning outlet). They took forever to send someone out to look at the problems, and now they are trying to say that they will not be covered because our warranty has expired. Duh! I reported the items before the expiration, and then they dragged their feet about sending someone. At the time, I forgave them due to the hurricanes; little did I know they would try to turn it around on me.

They also had the nerve to say that the outlet simply needs to be reset. Believe me, I know how to do that, and I know that it is not the problem. The top part of the outlet works fine, while the bottom has some sort of physical obstruction in it on one side. I can tell that it's going to be an ongoing battle...it took several months just to get them to try to deny responsibility. They ignored my bi-weekly phone calls and finally sent a letter. I responded in writing and they're ignoring that, so I guess it's time for the calls to start up again. Ah, the joys of owning a new home!

It looks like me might finally get our last furniture issue resolved soon, too. Last summer we purchased a special-order entertainment center. We bought it from a picture, but in a stroke of supreme good fortune, it matched the wood tone of our other furniture almost exactly. But in their hurry to get out of our house before we discovered that the glass shelves were jammed immoveably into once of the cabinets, the deliverymen did not fasten the bridge correctly. Shortly thereafter, it came crashing down on the t.v. It only damaged the casing, but I was not a happy camper. A repairman came to remove the shelves (which entailed dismantling the cabinet) and said that a new bridge would be ordered, since the old one had been damaged in the fall. Months went by; each time I called, I was promised a non-existent return call.

Now that I am in Celebration full time, I can concentrate on getting loose ends tied up. I spoke with the store manager and discovered that the bridge was never ordered. Worse yet, our unit was discontinued a month ago! She offered an exchange for something different, but I've grown very fond of the entertainment center, so I'm hoping that it can be salvaged. A repairman came out this past week to see if he can rig something up. He took the bridge back to the shop with him, so I have my fingers crossed. It took some looking to find a unit that we liked, so hopefully he can hide the damage and reattach it in a more secure manner. Our new television set is coming next week, so I don't want anything crashing down on that!

But back to the rainy Friday...the only thing that I really missed was my semi-daily walk downtown. I could have gone in between the showers and carried an umbrella, but I didn't bother. Instead, I ended up driving to Herman's for an ice cream treat on my way out to do some business. Even with the threatening weather, the downtown area was hopping with Friday night crowds. The movie theater and restaurants were all doing a booming business, and I had to park a couple blocks away. Oh well, at least that gave me an abbreviated version of my usual hike. There was no bubble gum ice cream, but I didn't care because they still have that godly Mississippi Mud. Peanut clusters are delicious any time, but put them into chocolate ice cream and the Yummy Factor shoots up by 75 percent.

As I drove down 192, the sky was still spitting, but it never really got very steady. I guess it rained itself out during the daylight hours. I'm sure that all of the tourists have their fingers crossed that it will blow over and be gone for the weekend, when the crowds descend upon Disney World and the other area attractions.

That night, the heavens had pretty much rained themselves out. I had to pick my husband up on the airport around 11 p.m., and my windshield remained dry throughout the drive. Saturday, the sky was still murky, but the threat of more precipitation never turned into reality. Still, the clouds were enough to scare my husband away from taking a bike ride. Instead, we spend the day running errands...getting some spare keys made, picking up some items at the Florida Mall, checking some things out at the cell phone store, and the like.

I hate going to the mall because the traffic on Orange Blossom Trail rivals anything that I ever encountered in downtown Chicago. You can take 417 to the airport exit and slip in the back way (Boggy Creek to Sand Lake Road), but sometimes that is just as bad. Thankfully, today the car volume was relatively light. We worked our way down the road: first, Ace Hardware for the keys and some Simple Green to battle the creeping gunk, then the T-Mobile store and a quick stop at the Borders bookstore next door to stock up on the latest true crime paperbacks (I love them, especially Anne Rule, and I've gotten my husband addicted, too), then Bath & Body Works inside the mall for some scented plug-ins, and a grand finale of a mushroom pizza with goat cheese at California Pizza Kitchen.

CPK is across from Buca di Beppo, an Italian restaurant that I know well from the Chicago area. It's a great place to go with a group of people because the huge portions make sharing a necessity. They also have a cheap but wonderful house wine that I could drink all night. On the way out, we stopped by to see if they have a table in the kitchen like some of the Bucas in Chicago do. Sure enough, they did; you have to reserve it in advance, but it's a great spot, as you get to watch all of the dishes being prepared and carried out into the dining room. Visiting the Florida Mall Buca is definitely on our to-do list.

So that was my rainy Friday and my almost-rainy Sturday. Hopefully the sunshine will return on Sunday so I can slip in some outdoor activities before the work week starts up again.

My email address is celebration@mailblocks.com

My Celebration website can be found at www.celebrationinfo.com