June is Adopt-A-Cat Month...Whether You Want To Or Not

June is the American Humane Society's "Adopt A Cat" month, although I usually don't give it much thought because Duloc Manor is maxed out on its feline population. We have two normal cats, Stitch and Farquaad, and a schizophrenic beast named Tooncinator who spends 23 1/2 hours a day under the bed and the other half hour trying to bite us if we dare interact with him. I don't really count him as a pet, since to actually "pet" him would result in a bloody stump. He's like the crazy relative who lives in the attic and who you don't really talk about.

We were plenty comfortable with three cats in our home. Stitch and Quaad have a relationship that's way too close, and Tooncinator...well, he's just sort of there. Thus everything was in a somewhat shaky but acceptable balance Little did I know that Adopt A Cat month was about to become very, very personal to me.

It all started with a trip to Busch Gardens. I'm the Orlando Theme Parks Examiner (Click here to read my articles), and Tampa is close enough to fit under that umbrella, so I wanted to gather fodder for some Busch articles. We have Platinum SeaWorld annual passes that are good for Busch Gardens too. The passes are also good for preferred parking and the ability to stay on the roller coasters and ride a second time with no wait. All in all, we were looking forward to a fun day.

We arrived right at parking lot opening time and were directed to the preferred lot. I loved it, as it's right by the entrance vs. across the street like the regular parking. We had our tickets scanned and lined up at the entrance rope, where they had a band come out to entertain everyone till rope drop time. Our plan was to head right to SheiKra, Busch Garden's main roller coaster. Hubby and I are both coaster fanatics, and we especially like models designed by Bollinger and Mallibard. Thus we were looking forward to a B & M-designed 200 foot climb, followed by a straight-down plummet to earth.

We figured that if we headed to SheiKra first, we could ride it a few times before the crowds got heavy. Alas, that coaster doesn't open until 9:30. Ugh! Thus we went over to the Lion and Tiger wooden racing coasters and rode each of those twice while waiting for the time to pass. We only did a two-fer because we could do it with our pass; those coasters were wicked! There aren't many wooden coasters in Florida, so I forget just how rough they can be. I'll take a metal model any day.

By that time it was after 9:30, so we hustled over to SheiKra. I looked up at its intimidating heights and wondered if my nerves might overcome my love of plummeting down head-first at blinding speeds. I adore Magnum XL at Cedar Point, but unlike SheiKra, Magnum has regular trains. SheiKra's have no floor and the end seats hang out over the track so there is literally nothing below you. Better yet, it pauses at the top of the hill for four seconds before zooming straight down. Although I adore roller coasters, ironically I have a fear of heights. It usually doesn't bother me on rides because I am securely strapped and harnessed in, but I wasn't sure how an open train would feel.

We waited for the front row, figuring we should do our first ride the right way...and I loved it! It actually edged out Manta (also a B & M coaster) as my favorite Central Florida coaster. We did our re-ride, and then I kept dragging hubby on, telling him, "Let's just keep riding it until the line gets too long. Then we'll do something else. I promise." (He was dying to try all the other coasters.) We made it up to nine rides on SheiKra, but on the ninth one I could feel drizzle as we left the station. Sure enough, it started raining harder...and harder...and harder...ugh! There I was with a fanny pack full of stuff, including my cell phone, and DH had his cell in his pocket, and we were getting progressively wetter. Little did we know that we mere seconds away from experiencing new levels of being soaked.

SkeiKra has a second hill where it also stops before plummeting, just like the first one. We climbed it, stopped...and sat there. And sat there. Meanwhile, a monsoon was pummeling us with a rainwater flood. As the minutes ticketed away, we could tell something was wrong. A voice came over a loudspeaker telling us that Sheikra had temporarily ceased operation (thank you, Captain Obvious) and that the situation was being assessed. I eyed the nearby stairs, wondering if we'd have to walk down and weighing the excitement and bragging rights as a coaster enthusiast vs. the chance of getting zapping with lightning.

The people around us were flipping out about their cell phones and whatever else they had in their pockets, and one poor girl towards the back was screaming and being ordered to "shut up" by her unsympathetic companions. I focused on trying to cover my fanny pack as best as I could. Normally, being a seasoned Floridian theme park goer, I wrap the contents in plastic. I'd gotten lazy lately, and now I was paying the price. Finally, after several more minutes, the coaster started moving again, and a new sort of hell started as the rain hit our faces like hail pellets. I kept my eyes closed and reminded myself that it would all be over in a minute or so and that sudden rainstorms are part of the joy of living in Florida and a fair trade-off for a life free of winter blizzards.

We made it into the station and were given two front of the line passes each for our future use, along with our fellow riders. I thought it was a nice gesture, since Busch can't control the weather. We hustled over to a nearby store, where I bought a dry t-shirt (which I had been planned to anyway) and shorts (which were not in the plan, but I wasn't driving more than an hour home in sloshy jeans).

We donned rain ponchos and hustled to the car, planning to stop at Sonny's BBQ for a nice lunch. We see their commercials all the time, but they don't have a location around Celebration. We'd noticed one just off I-4 so we figured that would be convenient. I contacted Onstar to ask how to get to I-4, and they gave me directions for a different way than the one we'd come. That was fine with me, as long as we got there eventually.

We were tooling down the road at 55 m.p.h. when a flash of movement caught my eye. A kitten! A tiny black kitten! It appeared in the right lane, and darted towards the center. I was sure it was going to be splattered, but somehow it decided to change direction and ran to the shoulder. Unfortunately, there was a 10 foot concrete wall. It tried frantically to climb it, and I knew it was just a matter of time before it ran into traffic again. I whipped over onto the left shoulder, since I was in the left lane, jumped out, and ran towards the frantic little fur ball. He must have exhausted himself, as he was now plastered motionless against the wall.

The kitten was so close but yet so far, as there was no break in traffic in sight. I-4 is only slightly safer than the Daytona racetrack. Finally a few cars noticed me and slowed down, and one woman stopped in the right lane so I could get across. As I ran, the jackass behind her suddenly whipped around her on the shoulder, heading right for the kitten. I started screaming at him, but he just gave me a blank stare as he nearly ran it over; thank god it was against the wall. As soon as he passed, I swooped in and managed to grab the soaking wet, shivering little creature. Now there just remained the trick of crossing the road one more time.

Hy husband had emerged from the car and was standing helplessless on the other side. Eventually I saw a tiny break and ran like I was in the Olympics, making it safely with my precious cargo in tow. Hubby took over cat care duty as I lept into the driver's seat to try to figure out what to do. I was reasonably sure that the kitten hadn't been hit, since I'd seen it running and trying to climb the wall. It was bleeding, but that appeared to be from road rash since someone had obviously tossed it out onto I-4. Besides the tell-tale marks, there was literally no way an animal could have gotten to that stretch of the expressway on its own. Someone must have tossed it out right at the moment I saw it appear in the traffic lane.

I knew we needed to get it to a vet, but it was Saturday afternoon and we were in totally unfamiliar territory. Onstar to the rescue! I called to see if they could find a nearby vet, and they started calling listings until they found one that was open for the next hour. We rushed off with the poor little kitty in tow; he was wet, bloody, shivering, and literally skin and bones. Thankfully the doctor was able to see him. He gave us two types of medication and said that the poor little baby seemed like he would pull through the ordeal.

We headed back to Duloc Manor with the kitten in tow. I've rescued lots of strays in my life, and back in Chicago I knew no-kill shelters where I could bring them to ensure their safety and adoption. In Florida, no-kills are fewer and much farther between, and now is a terrible time anyway since people who are getting foreclosed on are abandoning their animals left and right. With three cats already, I knew I should try to find somewhere to take the kitten. I figured we could even foster him till a rescue group could find him a home. But in reality, I had risked life and limb to save him, and I hated the idea of giving him away and probably never knowing where he ened up. If we fostered him for a rescue group, I'd just get attached and end up keeping him anyway, so why deny the inevitable? Before the night was over, I realized that June had indeed become Adopt A Cat Month for me.

We christened him SheiKra; it was either that or Onstar, since both were responsible for our being in that place at that very moment to save him, and naming him after my favorite roller coaster just seemed fitting. Riding over and over and getting caught in the monsoon had set me up to find him, so in a way he owed his life to SheiKra. Now we just have to go through the ever-so-fun process of waiting for our other beasties to adjust to him. As you can see by the last photo in the series of pictures below, he is adjusting to life in Celebration quite well.

Below, three photos on Rescue Day:






One day later, the two photos below show how SheiKra has settled in (the big cat in the last photo is Stitch):

Floods and Tornados

Nothing underscores the difference between living in Florida vs. living in the Midwest as much as a tornado. Having grown up in Chicago, I learned that tornado warnings were as common as dandelions in spring and fall. Every Tuesday morning at 10 a.m. I'd hear the tornado siren tests. Sometimes the sirens would scream in the midst of a storm, and we'd troop down into the basement and nervously ride out the worst of it, hoping we wouldn't hear a "freight train" rumbling overhead. Fortunately we never had a nearby touchdown. I even remember driving with hubby to pick up a propane tank and seeing a funnel cloud dancing in the green sky off in the distance.

We have tornados in Florida too, but it's a much different matter. There are no warning sirens or basements. You're pretty much on your own. Granted, you can turn on the TV, but Fox News et. al. go into frenzies of anticipation the minute the skies even hint that they might spawn a tornado. They break into programming and show the radar ad naseum to the point where you'd never know whether they're tossing off "what ifs" vs. actually referring to a real tornado baring down on your home. It's the classic case of the boy who cried wolf: if a Florida weatherman told me a tornado was in my backyard, I wouldn't believe it until it blew down the door.

But even if you know it's coming in Florida, you're pretty much shafted because 90 percent of the houses have no basements. Duloc Manor is shotgun style, with three exterior walls covered with windows. In the best of times, I love all that sunlight. In tornados, windows become the enemy. We only have one potential cubbyhole to hide in: a Harry Potter powder room under the stairs. It's barely large enough for a toilet and sink, so imagine it being crowded with two adults, three cats, and a quaker parrot.

Actually, we'd probably have to leave our crazy cat, Tooncinator, to the fates. He spends 90 percent of his time under the bed, conversing with the voices in his head. If you touch him in a way he doesn't like, which pretty much includes all touch, he'll bite and scratch the living snot out of you. By the time we could ever get him out and stop the bleeding, the tornado would no doubt have already ripped the house down.

Today was one of those "tornado days," the culmination of a stormy week. Fox News was in a feeding frenzy, interrupting my court shows so the weatherman could play with the various radar views and go over the horrifying possibilities with obvious glee. Sometimes I picture the entire newsroom in a prayer circle, asking the fates to send a killer storm so they can rush out and cover the devestation, thus ensuring plenty of extra air time. They're even worse in hurricane season...any time a fish farts in the Atlantic, they'll already referred to it as a named storm and projecting its killer capability.

For the moment the storms have settled down, although we might have Wave Two tonight. Meanwhile, I'm gauging the odds of whether I'll be able to figure out if a tornado is really heading our way and, if so, how I'll control the manic housepets in the Harry Potter room.

If you've ever thought about becoming a mental health counselor, check out my new book, "So You Want To Be A Counselor," by visiting http://counselorwannabe.blogspot.com

Mary Poppins and a Culinary Tour

The longer I live in Celebration, the less I miss Chicago. Actually, I suppose "miss" is a misnomer, since I've never really missed it on the whole. It's more like certain parts, such as my favorite restaurants or the bustling theater district. Food and Broadway shows are the two things that occasionally draw me back, and that's exactly what happened this past weekend when I winged my way north to see "Mary Poppins" and indulge in as many of my favorite foods as possible over the course of 48 hours.

My trips north tend to be as brief as possible, so hubby scheduled me to fly out Saturday morning and return on Monday morning. That way, the cats and Truman, my quaker parrot, could fend for themselves while I was gone. I flew Southwest as usual, and on the way out we managed to snare our favorite exit row seats. Hubby is an A-Lister (frequent flyer who automatically gets a good boarding number), so we were first to board after the conga line of pre-boarders. Fortunately, the "pre-people" posed no threat since they're not allowed to sit in the exits.

It was quite amusing to watch all the people with babies and toddlers flipping out when they were told they had to wait until after the A group boarded. Even though most other airlines abandoned family pre-boarding years ago, especially in Orlando, Southwest kept it for a long, long time. The breeders got spoiled, so they get really irked now that they have to wait until after A. They seem to forget that they could go through the effort to get an A pass themselves if they really cared. The gate agent warded them off and we trooped on board at the head of the A group and plopped into exit row seats 11A and C.

I always find it funny when couples insist that they have to sit next to each other. Hubby likes his window exit, while I prefer an aisle for easy bathroom access. I'm secure enough in our marriage to figure it will survive if someone sits between us for a two-hour flight. Indeed, we soon had a middle-seat occupant...a tall guy who thought he'd hit the jackpot with all the extra leg room. I settled in with my music and headphones and dozed off for most of the flight; hubby poked me awake when we were descending into Midway and I had to turn off my electronic device.

Compared to Florida, Chicago was freakin' cold! It's already flirting with 90 in Florida, but Chicago's temps were in the 60s and 70s, so I was shivering in my thin Floridian jacket. My brother and sister-in-law picked us up at the airport, and we headed to Pepe's for lunch. It's my ultimate favorite authentic Mexican restaurant, and I don't mean Tex-Mex. Ironically, tho', although it was delicious, it wasn't the culinary treat I had anticipated. I think that's because I love Abuelo's so much now that Pepe's has lost some of its charm. It's just not worth the 1200 mile jaunt when I can run 10 minutes down Osceola Parkway.

That evening, we had reservations at a Japanese Teppan restaurant for what my brother and I affectionately call "lard lobster." There is plenty of Teppan in Orlando, but I've never found a place that serves their lobster slathered in a heart attack-inducing mixture of lard and egg yolk. It sounds gross, but it's an acquired taste. We Chicago natives love our heart-destroying culinary concoctions. That old SNL skit with the Super Fans, where at least one of them had a heart attack on every show, is no joke!

The lard lobster was good, but like Pepe's it didn't wow me like I expected. The side dishes were rather bland compared to my favorite (and unfortunately now closed) Orlando Teppan place. Still, it was fun to dine with family, although I don't miss them as much as I probably would if I lived in pre-cell phone days.

The next day was the main reason for my visit: "Mary Poppins" at the Cadillac Theater. Hubby had managed to snag front row balcony tickets so we'd be in a perfect position to see Mary fly. Driving the Dan Ryan Expressway was no more fearsome than good old I-4. We parked near Lawry's, which was where we had dinner reservations, and walked over to the theater. I was surprised at the number of little kids, since the play is nearly three hours long. I think the Disney movie version is pushing it, especially in today's ADD society, and the play doesn't have the cartoon sequences to capture the kiddie's attention.

Surprisingly, the wee ones seemed engaged for the whole show...or at least the ones seated near me. Part of that might have been due to the fact that Mom was bribing them with Skittles through most of the second act. I had wondered if I'd get a bit bored myself, but it was so fast paced that the three hours flew by. Mary flew too...literally. She did it onstage a couple times, building up to the grand finale where she soared over the audience. We were in a perfect spot to see it, as she flew pretty much right over our heads. I thought that would be the highlight, but I have to admit the dance scene in which Bert literally dances upside down came pretty darned close.

The play isn't just a Broadway version of the movie. The story is somewhat changed, making Mrs. Banks a former actress rather than a suffrage activist and making Mr. Banks a lot more of a jerk. Also, there were more parts from the original Mary Poppins books; most people probably didn't realize that, but I read them all as a kid so I was pleasantly surprised to see Mrs. Corry and her gingerbread shop and the live statues.

The staging is really the best part of this show. I didn't like it as well as "Lion King," but that's not to say that it's not a great production. It's just that "Lion King" is so different. "Mary Poppins" is more of a traditional musical with some amazing scenery changes and special effects. Right before my trip, I had been wondering if it would be worth the bother of visiting Chicago for a whirlwind 48 hours. Happily, it was indeed worth the trip.

Afterwards, it was off to Lawry's and a dinner of the best prime rib on the planet. Being Mother's Day, the restaurant was packed to the gills but we had a reservation so we were seated promptly. The prime rib was as delicious as ever. It's carved right at your table, and our carver was in an overly generous mood as he plopped the equivalent of half a cow on each of our plates. I slathered the meat liberally with the heavenly whipped cream horseradish sauce that is a Lawry's hallmark. I also had spinach and creamed corn as sides; they were good, but I don't miss the creamed corn as much these days, since hubby has the recipe and makes it frequently at home. Now if he could just figure out how to slow-roast a freshly slaughtered cow.

As I indulged in my culinary tour of the Windy City, I imagined the abuse I would soon be enduring from my Wii Fit. I've lost a lost of weight just by cutting out desserts and most sugar, but I recently got the Wii Fit to add some regular exercise. If you're ever seen Japanese game shows, you know what a cruel streak they have in Japan. In the Wii Fit, this manifests itself in blatantly calling you "overweight" and demanding that you justify any gains by selecting a reason. Unfortunately, "Gorging self on favorite foods on hometown tour" is not among the options.

Oh well, I figured that I couldn't do too much damage in just 48 hours. Monday morning came all too soon, and I had to drag my carcass out of bed at 5:30 a.m. to make it to the airport for my early morning flight. Hubby was staying in Chicago for business, so I bid him farewell at Midway and went off in search of my gate. My boarding number was so-so (A24), so I wasn't holding out much hope for an exit row. I figured I'd just grab any convenient aisle.

When it was time to board, I discovered to my amazement that 11A (the exit row window seat) was still unoccupied. Even though I usually take an aisle, I figured I could grab that seat without guilt since there was plenty of room to get in and out to the restroom. There was a man sitting on the aisle, and we almost lucked out with an empty middle till a rotund dude hustled on the plane at the last minute and wedged himself between us (I say "wedged" because I could feel the armrest straining). Oh well, I figured it wouldn't be too traumatic since I planned to spend most of the flight reading or napping. The guy did try the old "lean over and read with my magazine in your space" ploy, but I quickly thwarted that with pressing needs to lean down and rummage in my bag and then set up an intricate pattern of items on my tray table, which make that maneuver impossible to maintain. He got the hint, and peace reigned for the rest of the flight in our comfy little exit row.

Back at the airport, I had to endure the special hell of taking a bus to the Blue Lot. Normally we park in the Red Lot at the South Exit, which is very convenient to 417. Sadly, it's been closed for a while now so everyone has to park in the Blue Lot, way out by the North Exit. Better yet, even though half the population of Orlando was waiting for the shuttle bus, they sent a micro-shuttle with a capacity of literally only nine people, although that was reduced by the fact that there was little room for any luggage. I was lucky enough to make it on board, but I felt bad for the huge crowd of people who were left behind as the driver shrugged and said, "Another bus is coming." Things were so tight on board that adults were literally sitting on each other's laps.

Oh well, I made it back to the lot and breathed a sign of relief as I headed for 417 to return to my hometown of Celebration. I suppose that a part of me will always be a "Chicago Girl," but every time I return there is less and less to miss. Now I'm a thin-blooded Floridian at heart...I probably won't go back to the Windy City for a year or two, when "Shrek the Musical" finally makes its way there. And if the rumored new theater ever gets built in downtown Orlando...heck, I might never have to go back!

Chevy's Vs. Abuelo's

Back when I lived in Chicago, I learned how to love good Mexican food. Or perhaps I should say, good authentic Mexican food. I liked some of the Americanized stuff, too, like the old Chi Chi's chain, but it wasn't in the same league with good old-fashioned Mexican home cooking from the neighborhood restaurants. Actually, there is one local chain called Pepe's that is usually quite good, depending on the owner/manager. They even had sopa de fideo for a very short time, although most Americans are clueless as to what that is so I was probably the only one ordering it.

In Florida, I've rarely found authentic Mexican food, other than one little hole in the wall (aren't those always the best?) way out past the airport. For close-by food, we contented ourselves for a long time with Chevy's. Mind you, I love Chevy's, but most of it is not authentic by any stretch of the imagination (portabello fajitas? nope!). The only problem is that Chevy's is located on the other side of Disney World, at the Crossroads just outside the Lake Buena Vista gate. That means the special hell of navigating a section of I-4 that is usually akin to a parking lot. As an alternate, you can play "dodge the tourists" by driving across Disney property, complete with the Downtown Disney stoplight gauntlet. Either way, getting in and out of the Crossroads shopping center with a traffic light that stays green for maybe 3 seconds is an adventure all on its own. Still, we did it pretty often because my appetite for Mexican food is insatiable.

Then, one happy day, a new restaurant arose from the ground next door to BJ's Brewhouse over at the Loop shopping center. At first I thought the sign said "Aurelio's," and I nearly fainted as that's one of my favorite Chicago pizza chains. Alas, they hadn't expanded over to Florida. It was Abuelo's, apparently a Mexican restaurant. I didn't hold up much hope, but it went on the "Try eventually" list.

Eventually took quite a while, since BJ's tends to draw us in. Finally one day I had a wild taste for Mexican, so we have Abuelo's a go. Mmmmmmmm! Delicious! Still not as authentic as a Mexican neighborhood in Chicago, but moreso than Chevy's and so much easier to get to. Not that I like it more than Chevy's...I like them equally in their own ways. But the simple drive down Osceola Parkway is so much easier than I-4 Hell.

For a long time we stuck with Abuelo's, even though my mind would wistfully turn to Chevy's seafood enchilada once in awhile, as Abuelo's has no equivalent. Then Chevy's sent me a coupon and it finally drew hubby and I to make the dreaded journey. The internet said that I-4 was clear....wrong. We inched along, watching snails jog by us, until we finally got to the Lake Buena Vista exit. As we pulled into the Chevy's parking lot, I imagined that if we had gone to Abuelo's, in the same length of time we'd probably already have been tucking into our main course. Thankfully we managed to beat the dinner crowd, and I ordered my favorite enchilada, along with a fish taco since those are the current special. It felt so good to chow down on my old favorite...but, surprisingly, not quite as good as I thought. I had honestly thought that going back to Chevy's would remind me of why I loved it and draw me back for more. But as good as their food is, the drive was so miserable that all I could think is, "Now I see why we've switched to Abuelo's."

I felt a bit melancholy on the way home (although at least I-4 had cleared up some). Chevy's had been a staple for us ever since the days when Duloc Manor was still being built and we'd come down to FL for weekend progress checks. At that time, the Loop had been a cow pasture, and I never imagined that a shopping center would spring up out of the dirt.

Oh well, it's nice to have Abuelo's nearby, and I don't think the traffic will ever get too bad since Osceola is a tollway that charges $1.00 per way. Pricey, but worth it for the convenience. In the meantime, I'm afraid that Chevy's will have to be an off-season indulgence.

The Search for Cat Crack and Rolaids

My husband and I went on a rather odd quest last week. We wandered outside of the Bubble and through the greater Kissimmee area in search of Cat Crack and Rolaids. Yes, it's an odd combination, but let me explain. Until recently, I had no idea that Target, the unassuming big box store, sold cat toys apparently made in Columbia. We buy our cat litter there because they have the cheapest store-brand crytal litter anywhere, and last time I also grabbed a catnip toy on a lark. I love to get our cats high and watch their insane antics. Usually I buy toys at the pet store, and I kind of doubted the nip would be fresh or reactive, but I thought what the heck.

When I gave my cats the toy, they went on a total bender. Within mere minutes, it was a mass of teeth marks as they tried frantically to get at the cat crack inside. One of them even bathed it in his water bowl, apparently trying to brew some sort of psychoactive tea. I resolved to get more of the toys on my next trip to Target.

Meanwhile, my husband had discovered that the Rolaids multi-symptom chewable tablets we like had suddenly disappeared from every pharmacy shelf, as well as from online retailers. Poof, they were gone, with no signs of a recall or being discontinued or any other logical explanation. We did find a stash at one boofoo Walgreens way out on West 192, but other than that we came up empty handed at the usual stores. I take a medication that tends to make me bloated so they are a lifesaver for me, and they're the only brand with their particular blend of ingredients. I even went to the brand-new Target that had just opened on 192, looking for both cat crack and Rolaids, but neither graced their shelves.

Hubby and I finally decided that we would head out on a mission. I had called the manufacturer of Rolaids and was told they had moved production, resulting in a shortage. Fortunately, that is supposed to be resolved in April, and in the meantime they gave me the names and addresses of several places that might have stock.

I should probably explain that 192 is a tourist strip, which means that it has a Walgreens and CVS drugstore every other block. Most of the addresses that I was given were for the various drugstores lining East 192. I was also told that the godforsaken K-Mart out there might have 'em, and I figured that might be true since I rarely see many people shopping there. On the way, there are also two Targets within literally maybe a mile of each other, which I've never understood (the 20 or so Wal-Marts try to stay at least a mile and a half apart). But hey, we could make it a dual effort and pick up some cat crack while we were out.

Thus we begain our mission, little knowing how futile it would prove on both fronts. Every few blocks we pulled over into a Walgreen's or CVS and came out empty handed. Even the K-Mart was bare of the coveted Multi-Symptom Rolaids, although I did manage to pull some sort of weird Mardi Gras colored stuffed animal out of the claw machine. Fortunately a little kid was watching me, so I pawned it off on her.

Meanwhile, the older of the two Targets had cat toys, but not THE crack toys. And sadly, the closest ones they had were on close-out. The government must have figured it out and shut 'em. Argh! I bought as many of the similar toys as I could; at least they were only a dollar. Now it made sense why the brand new Target had none at all and why our usual Target hadn't restocked since the last time I cleaned 'em out.

We still stopped by our usual Target, as hope springs eternal. Nope, no crack toys. Once the close-out goodies are gone, I'll have to send all three cats to rehab, then they'll have to content themselves with the "methadone" toys we get at Petsmart. In the meantime, we actually did find some of our favored Rolaids, albeit in pocket-sized rolls. Hopefully that will be enough to get us through till April when the new manufacturing facility clicks into full gear.

The Creepy King Comes to Florida

I'll admit it, I like weird commercials. Cutsey stuff makes me roll my eyes, and the Charmin Bears with their dingleberries and group pooping make me shudder. But give me something like those freaky hamster-looking things that used to sing off-tune for Quiznos and you've got my attention.

With my odd taste in ads, I supposed it should be no surprise that I am a big fan of Burger King's Creepy King. Unlike the clownishness of Ronald McDonald or the affable previous Burger King who appeared in the ads of my youth (I can still hear the jingle in my head: "He's the marvelous, magical Burger King and he can do most anything"), the Creepy King is just...well, creepy. He's got that frozen plastic smile, modeled after the king head that used to top tanks of helium used to blow up balloons at Burger King franchises for various promotions back in the day. You can't help but wonder what's going on behind that rigid smirk and whether he's going to show up in your bed with a breakfast sandwich someday.

I've seen him on various Burger King commercials, showing up unannounced to present frightened people with food or slip money into their pockets. I've also watched him be pummeled by a group of angry mothers, although I can't remember why. Little did I suspect that I'd ever get a chance to see him in person, but now I can say that I've met the Burger King:



I am a reporter for Examiner.com, an online news and feature publication that includes coverage by locals on various "citizen journalist" beats. Mine is Orlando Theme Parks, which means I mainly cover Disney, Universal, SeaWorld and the like. As a result, I go to various media events to cover the latest happenings at the parks and their peripheries. When I was invited to the opening of the world's first Whopper Bar at Universal Orlando's CityWalk, it never crossed my mind that the King himself might be in attendance. I expected the usual company officials, but not the Creepy King with his bling, royal-robes, and plastered-on plastic smile.

Surprise, surprise! There he was! I was a bit disappointed that he didn't chase people around and try to give them food, but he was on his best behavior. He simply posed for photographs before being the first person into the new Whopper Bar with an excited crowd close behind. You can read about the full experience by clicking here to visit my Examiner.com page.

If you've never seen a Creepy King commercial, you can check out "Wake Up With the King" below:



And here are the Quiznos rats ("They got a pepper bar!"), lest we forget one of the creepiest commercials ever:

Disney Brand...Eggs?

Granted, it's not as exciting as Spotted Dick Pudding, but another product caught my eye in Publix today. This was in the Publix near Celebration, where we have no obscenely named foods but where people make milk sacrifices to God (if you're not sure what I'm babbling about, just read the previous blog entry). What we do have is Disney Brand Eggs. Yes, Disney Brand Eggs, complete with Mickey on the box and characters neatly stamped onto each shell:

I was innocently choosing some yogurt when Mickey caught my eye. When you stay at your first on-site Disney resort, they implant a powerful chip that will draw you to such things like a beacon, and when you move to Celebration I suspect they somehow upgrade it, or else the close proximity to the Home of the Mouse just makes it stronger. I did a double take...yes, I was looking at Disney eggs, produced by chickens who eat nothing but vegetarian feed, with no hormones, chemicals, or antibiotics. According to the description inside the carton lid, they have "bright, clear egg whites and rich, plump yokes, making them more distinct than ordinary eggs." I can't say I've ever really looked an an egg close enough to make any comparison. As long as the yolk reasonably yellow and soft enough to smoosh my toast in, I'm covered. A bit of exploring on the internet revealed the following commercial, featuring a somewhat scary Mickey head made from a fried egg, although I supposed it would be rather tasty with Mickey waffles, and a Mickey ice cream bar for dessert:





Alas, I didn't see the groovy Mickey shaper included in the carton of eggs, so you're on your own to create egg artwork for your breakfast table. I'm close enough to Disney World to get a dose whenever I want it, but if you live farther away, a taste of Mickey (literally) is just as close to the refrigerator case in your local store. You may even get a few extra eggs down the kids' gullets before they realize that stamped-characters still don't make them as desirable to young palates as sugar-laden cereals.

Publix Porn

Normally my husband and I shop at the Publix located closest to Celebration. It's right down 192, just past the underpass for 417 and behind Logan's Steakhouse. Granted, it's always swarming with hordes of tourists, and every now and then there's a purse snatching or robbery (but that's the norm with tourist-strip businesses). I just clutch my pepper spray firmly and put on my aggressive "I'm from the South Side of Chicago, don't mess with me" demeanor, and thus far I've had no problems.

A few months ago, a brand-new Publix opened in the Hunters Creek area, near the new Loop shopping center at John Young Parkway and Osceola Parkway. I heard through word of mouth that it was supposed to be very nice. A much more local crowd, bigger, cleaner, and with a better selection. Checking it out has been on my list of things to do, but I never got around to it till today.

Hubby and I had lunch at Abuelo's, a yummy Mexican restaurant at the Loop. Since the Publix is right across Osceola Parkway so we decided to do our shopping there. Little did I know that I was stepping into the Porn Publix!

It started when a can caught my eye: Spotted Dick Sponge Pudding. Yes, Spotted Dick. The mental images stirred up by the name were quite disturbing and did not put me in the mood for pudding. You can see the can below:



Okay, weird brand but what the heck. I didn't realize that it was a trend until we reached the coffee aisle and I discovered Major Dickason's Blend. I have no idea what it was blended with, but I have no doubt that it probably goes well with the Spotted Dick pudding. At this point my mind was reeling a bit, as I've never found such graphic brands in our local Publix. Little did I realize what was waiting around the next corner.

"Uh, honey...honey..." I gasped, tugging at my husband's sleeve. There, just down the aisle, was a woman in tight black pants. But the pants had a cutout on each side that ran from her thighs all the way up to and including her generous butt cheeks. Other than sewn-in mesh, they were naked for all the world to see. And it wasn't tight mesh either. It was the kind you'd see someone wearing with a teddy. Perhaps she was searching for Major Dickason, hoping he would show her the location of the Spotted Dick. I have no idea, and I didn't care to explore the concept further. All I knew was that I'd somehow blundered into the Porno Publix, and I was more than ready to escape.

I shared my tale with a friend, who recounted her own experience at our local Purse-Snatching Publix. She'd been selling Girl Scout cookies with her daughter in front of the store and noticed a woman sitting there, pouring out a container of milk. When she was done, she poured out another one, right out onto the ground. Perhaps noticing my friend's astonishment, she explained that when you want something from God, you have to make sacrifices. Apparently, rather than slaughtering a goat, which would be rather messy for the parking lot, she had chosen to give Him milk. She pointed out that she was giving Him lowfat, buttermilk, AND goat milk, since she wasn't sure which type He preferred. Smart woman...not taking any chances.

While my friend was still reeling, a white van pulled up and Milk Lady hopped in, perhaps on her way back to the Funny Farm although it was an unmarked vehicle. Meanwhile, as the Girl Scouts sold their cookies, they also watched the milk curdling in the sun. Apparently God didn't feel moved to spirit the sacrifice up to Heaven.

I can't say I've ever witnessed such goings-on at a supermarket in Chicago (where, of course, everyone shops at Da Jewels). That's not to say they don't happen there, but in my personal experience there were no Spotted Dicks or milk sacrifices. Just another bit of fun living in such a....er, diverse part of the world. From now on, I think we'll stick to the Publix close to home because curdling milk puddles are easier to handle than Major Dickason's Spotted Dick and Bare Butt Woman.

Parade of Stars at Disney Hollywood Studio

Thursday, February 12th, was a gala day at Disney Hollywood Studio as a parade of American Idol celebrities, including all seven winners, joined a motorcade down the "blue carpet" past throngs of adoring fans.

You can read about my adventures at the parade, the show, and the after-party (where I met my favorite Idol of all time, Ruben Studdard, producer Simon Fuller, and many others) by visiting my Examiner.com site at www.examiner.com/x-2200-Orlando-Getaways-Examiner (there are plenty of photos of the show, where Carrie Underwood and David Cook did a duet and all seven winners took the stage together). Meanwhile, you can thumb through the parade photos below. Enjoy!

Join Me Live at Walt Disney World!

Check out my video and pictorial blog of the American Idol premiere event by visiting http://www.wdwevent.com/packinthefun/examiner/

You'll see photos and videos that are updated every day (right now there are three videos live and a TON of photos). The media tour is part of my work for Examiner.com, where I am the Orlando Getaways reporter. My main Examiner site is at http://www.examiner.com/x-2200-Orlando-Getaways-Examiner

Please join me over at the Disney site...I promise it will be a lot of fun! The Idol premiere is Thursday, so by Friday the final video and photos should all be uploaded.

Community Crisis

Normally, a crisis in Florida consists of an impending hurricane, or perhaps a tornado. Lately, the wind chills (yes, wind chills!) might qualify. But here in Celebration we had a different sort of crisis yesterday. Electricity went out to several villages (near as I can figure, East, South, Aquila Reserve, and Artisan Park were all affected) and was off for several hours. In EV, I think it ran from 5 a.m. all the way to past 1 p.m.

Initially, I gained semi consciousness at 5 a.m. and noticed that it was awfully dark. It partially registered in my sleepy mind that the power was off, but I didn't think much of it. I had a meeting scheduled in the morning, so I just drifted back off. When I woke up again, the sun was blazing so I didn't notice the pervasive darkness, but everything was too silent and my clock's face was blank. Uh oh, it was almost time for my meeting, and there I was with no hair dryer and a questionable amount of hot water. Everything in our house is electric, so a power outage means paralysis. Even the phones are all cordless, which means they were all dead. I had my cell, but it was nearly out of battery power. My laptop was charged up, but no power means no wireless router and therefore no internet.

I tried to communicate with my husband via my failing phone. It's a G1 so I can normally use the internet, but for some reason it wasn't working. Hubby checked the community intranet and saw many reports about the outage, as well as the fact that Progress Energy was working on it. At this point, my phone was almost dead, and I knew I needed to work, so I left the house in search of power and wireless. I headed off to Clementine's, a nice little coffee shop at Water Tower Place.

Clementine's has yummy food and drinks, but better yet, they had power and internet access. I set up camp at a comfy table, ordered a drink, and plugged in my phone and computer. There were many other refugees. In a way, it was like a hurricane shelter on a much smaller scale. People had fled their powerless homes to congregate on a handy central point where they could enjoy a latte and indulge in their internet fix.

I met several people I knew already and one person who realized we were posting on the community intranet at the same time, from nearby tables, and introduced himself. It amazed me as to just how wired society has become, to the point of barely being able to function when the tech gadgets are taken away. For me, all three of my businesses are tied into the internet, so my laptop and a connection are crucial. I was much less dependent on cell phones before I got my G1, but now it's like having the internet in my pocket. It's cool and frustrating all at the same time, as the battery lasts less than a day if you actually use the stupid thing.

The huddled masses continued to sip coffee (well, myself, I switched to iced tea) and get their electricity and internet fixes until word came down that power had been restored. It had been over eight hours in total, and I think that half of town must have given a collective sigh of relief when Progress Energy was finally done with their work.

Now I'm back to having power in Duloc Manor, and I think I've got a renewed appreciation for what that means. And I don't feel too bad, because as the impromptu refugee area showed, I'm most definitely not alone in my dependence.

In Search of a Happy Hut

Truman Burbank, our quaker parrot, is in love with his Happy Hut. If you don't own a quaker, conure, or similar feathered friend, you probably have no idea what that means. Basically, Happy Huts are cloth or fabric tents that hang from the ceiling of a bird's cage. The bird can sleep inside or hide in his "secure zone" if he's scared.

When we first bought Truman at Chief's Bird Cabin in Orlando (yes, that's really the name, and yes, it's really a cabin), they recommended buying a Happy Hut for him. They had a homemade variety made of plain cloth (the name brand models are made from thick, fuzzy material). I selected one, and as you can see below, he took to it almost immediately. It became his bedroom, as well as his sanctuary from the Vaccum Monster and various other household terrors.



Things went on peacefully for a year, and then last week Truman went to our friends' house for a weeklong visit while we took Disney Cruise #66 (to read my day by day trip report, click here to start with Day One on my Orlando Examiner site. They have five birds of their own, and Truman loves their daughter, so I knew that he'd be in good hands. Of course, his Happy Hut went with him.

When we returned, one of our friends delivered him instead of me doing a pick-up because just about everyone in their household was sick. Truman was quite non-plussed at all the turmoil. As soon as we took him out of the carrier, he greeted my husband with clicking sounds and a repetitive litany of "What?" and "Step up!" I got some of his favorite fart noises and a few cockatiel-style whistles (he was with two 'tiels all week).

After our friend left, I realized that Truman's Happy Hut was not among his supplies. Oh no! How would he sleep? Granted, birds can sleep on a perch, but my spoiled little boy was used to to his cushy birdy bedroom. I decided to just run out to the pet store and get him a new one. For a quaker parrot, he's pretty flexible. Some take days or weeks to get used to new things, but he generally takes to new toys and whatnot right away.

As much as I love living in Celebration, one of the hazards of being in a residential bubble in the middle of Tourist Land is a dearth of specialized stores. Sure, we have souvenir shops up the ying yang, and plenty of Wal-Marts and Targets, but dedicated pet stores are few and far between. Thankfully, there is a recently-built retail oasis called The Loop that's about 10 minutes (and a $1.50 toll) away from Celebration. They have a Petco that carries Happy Huts so I figured it would be a simple journey.

Wrong!

The one stinkin' time I needed a Happy Hut, they were totally out. I've seen them every time I've come to buy bird food, but on this day there had apparently been a run on them. It was getting late on a Saturday, so my only other option was to head out to the Petsmart way down in boffo on the other end of John Young Parkway and pray frantically on the way that they'd have a hut in stock.

Hubby and I raced off to the far-flung Petsmart. Even though I prefer them to Petco, I hate going there because it's far, a pain in the butt to get to, and it has one of the world's most poorly designed parking lots. Actually, I have to say that Florida in general has horrible parking lot design. Back in Illinois, there were myriad entrances and exits to choose from, and you could easily get from one part of the lot to the other. In my little slice of the Sunshine State, there's one entrance that's often well hidden, and you'll be lucky if one end of the lot connects to the other in more than one hard-to-find spot.

But we were on a mission, so I braved the special hell of the Petsmart lot and raced in to the bird section. Whew! The good news was that they had plenty of Happy Huts. The bad news was that they only had the name brand, which looks a good deal different from Truman's old digs. Oh well, I figured he'd get in it if he was desperate enough. I bought two identical huts to prevent any similar panicked quests in the future.

While Truman didn't flip out when I hung the new (and somewhat larger) hut in his cage, he was extremely leery of it. He gave it the fuzzy eyeball, then climbed out onto his cage top play gym. I returned him to the cage and showed him that the hut didn't bite me when I lined it with paper towels, but he was still skeptical. Finally hubby offered him a noodle, and the little carb hog grabbed it and ate it on the perch next to the hut. When it didn't attack him, he decided to do some shred work on the paper towels. By bedtime, he had climbed in and made himself at home.

The next day, I felt relieved that he'd slept in his hut, but I wondered if he really liked it as well as his old one. A quick glance inside answered that question! Quakers are nest-building parrots, and in captivity they will play with sticks and other building materials if you provide them. Tru has a bucket full of skewers, straws, popsicle sticks and the like. Just as he used to in his old hut, he had constructed a...well, I don't know what it is, but I do know it means he is happy. Check out his handiwork in the photo below. As you can see, the Happy Hut is living up to its name:

The Aviary Comes to Visit

Normally Duloc Manor has a good bit of animal life. Three cats and a quaker parrot make for a lively mix. But for this week it's a bit more like an aviary, or perhaps a zoo. Friends of mine headed off to D.C. for the inauguration, so they dropped off their two eclectus, two cockatiels, and one sun conure, as well as their little dog. Truman has stayed at their place while I'm on vacation, so now it was his turn to play host.

If you're not familiar with eclectus, they are parrots that act more like puppy dogs. All of the birds are trained to wear diapers, so they can pretty much wander around (I diaper Truman occasionally, but most of the time he hangs out on top of his cage so he's usually naked).

The Ekkies, two brothers named Milo and Otis, had no trouble settling in at all. For the first day, to allow them to get used to the place, I set up a "play zone" inside a large dog cage, complete with bird gym, toys to chew, and the like, and put it near their cage. They moved back and forth between the play area and their home base, having a lot of fun as you can see in the photo below:



Meanwhile Roscoe the dog, who is very old and deaf but still lively, had some sniffing time with the cats. Tooncinator was hiding under the bed as usual, discussing the state of the world with the voices in his head, but Farquaad and Stitch had to give their visitor the once-over. They like to sniff him thoroughly, then find a way to ensure that they're higher than him at all times, like lying on the coffee table. They'll read down and bat him with a paw as he goes by. They never claw him, but I guess it's just a dominance thing.

Unlike Truman, who stays up till the wee hours with me, the aviary goes to bed around 5:30 or 6. I cover them and move them into the front room, where it's relatively dark and quiet. By 8 a.m. they are rarin' to go, so I give them their food and move them back out into the family room a little later, opening their cage doors so they can run or fly around.

On Day One, the conure and tiels were rather flightly and didn't want to come out much. On the morning of Day Two, they were still the same way. Hubby and I diapered the Ekkies so they could wander around and left the other three closed in since they huddled in the back of the cage when we opened their door. The Ekkies promptly exerted their dominance, climbing to the top of the other two cages to play "King of the Mountain":



Truman's cage is on the left, but you can barely see him because he's hiding in his hut. The other three are on the right.

Later, with Milo and Otis on my shoulders, I opened the other cage door and the conure, Zazu, suddenly decided that coming out is fun after all. He flew right onto my arm, and the cockatiels followed in a feathered explosion. Now they seem to have decided that their new habitat is okay, even tho' there are two predators lurking around. Stitch pretty much ignores them. Farquaad would dearly love to eat them, but he knows all bird life is off limits. That doesn't stop him from creeping along, trying to be sneaky, before I noticed and yell at him. Then he gives me the innocent "I was going to do anything" Puss-In-Boots eyes.

Right now, the biggest challenge is keeping the two big guys from stealing the smaller birds' food. They love to sneak into the other cages and start feasting. It's like keeping an eye on two active toddlers. They both have a wide vocabulary, which they tend to say in my friend's voice. It can be a bit disconcerting to hear "her" saying, "Hello!" "Hey, Otis!" and "Peek-A-Boo." The conure talks, too. I've heard him say his name and one or two other things. The cockatiels will whistle songs when the mood strikes them, but mostly they just whistle randomly.

It's a bit like "Wild Kingdom," but the birds are a lot of fun. Truman is slightly jealous but not too much so. For the most part, he just goes through his regular routine except when the Ekkies try to sneak up on him. Then he does a bit of growling, not that it intimidates them in the least. I always thought Duloc Manor was lively with the usual resident critters, but once the menagerie is gone, it's going to seem like a ghost town!

An Explosive New Year

We welcomed in 2009 with a bang at the fireworks display in downtown Celebration. Having spent most of my life shivering through Chicago Decembers and Januarys where even sticking your nose out the door would be an insane idea, I still marvel at the fact that Floridian New Years celebrations are outdoors affairs repleat with sparklers, firecrackers, and bottle rockets. If you go to the theme parks, or in this case downtown Celebration, you can also see a show worthy of the Fourth of July.

Our plans had a bit of a last minute change. The friend who was planning to host the annual shindig had a tragedy crop up shortly before the holiday. The festivities shifted to Duloc Manor, which would still allow us easy access to downtown. Hubby and I dutifully prepared, trying to beat the cat hair down to a dull roar (one of our friends is allergic) and stocking up on snacks at Publix. Our guests were bringing lasagna for dinner, but we figured the munchies might set in later so we got staples like Chex Mix and a lunch meat and cheese tray for late-night noshing.

The crew arrived around 7:30 p.m., and the began to flow almost immediately. After dinner we broke out the board games and started off with Apples to Apples, always a party favorite. It's the sort of game that warped minds (especially drunk warped minds) can turned into a shockingly depraved experience. Then we switched to Malarky, which we'd never played before. It turned out to be even crazier than Apples to Apples. Basically there is a question, and one player secretly gets the right answer while the others get instructions to bluff. Then everyone votes on who they think is telling the truth.

This may sound like a simple concept, but when you put five creative and slightly crazy minds togther, the results are...well...let's just say that wine was snorted out of noses before the night was over. I don't generally think of my husband as a creative person (he's the stereotypical quiet, droll computer programmer type), but he was in the thick of things. The best moments came when he drew right answers that were so stupid they actually sounded wrong. And not only wrong, but like they were made up in desperation. We all laid into him for not coming up with something better, but lo and behold he had the last laugh.

I felt sorry for our friends' daughter, who was trying to watch TV in the same room with the rowdy, guffawing adults. It's pretty sad when a kid has to keep telling the adults to be quiet! Truman, our quaker parrot, was thrilled to see their other daughter as he had bonded with her while they babysat him during one of our cruises. He spent most of the evening snuggled up against her shoulder.

We headed downtown around 11:15, figuring that it might take a while to find a parking spot. Thankfully we had one teetotalling member of the pack to handle the driving duties. We didn't even attempt to park close by. Surprisingly, we managed to park in a good and relatively easy to get out of area. We made our way to the lakefront, where our friend's daughter had linked up with one of her friends. We had smuggled in a bottle of champagne (we had no idea glass bottles weren't allow till we got there), so we had a quick round before the countdown began. The fireworks show started promptly at midnight, and I have to say that it was very well choreographed to the music. It was long, too...probably a good 20 minutes. The only annoyance was someone who apparently thought he needed to share his cigar work with all the rest of us. People were standing shoulder to shoulder, yet he thought it was a good time to light up a stogie. It's not like people can easily move because a) it's jam packed; and b) they're trying to enjoy the show. Everyone around us was waving the air and hiding their noses in their shirts. I don't know what brand Mr. Rude was smoking, but it stunk like taking a clod of my horse's manure and wrapping it in moldy, rancid tobacco leaves. If someone is dumb enough to inhale that mess, I guess they're also dumb enough to think others will like to "share the wealth."

After the fireworks, we sat around for a while longer. There was another hour's worth of music, although workers started picking up the tables and chairs almost before the last explosion had echoed across the late. I felt like we were intruding to still be occupying a spot. Finally we headed to the car, marveling at the vicious traffic snarl. We were far enough away to make getting home relatively painless.

Back at Duloc Manor, it was time for Round Two of the food and the game. Things got even crazier, fueled by a bottle of champagne that was probably large enough to accommodate the whole block. The counselor in me kept imagining my friends' daughters sharing stories about New Years Eve 2009 with a therapist someday. Finally they headed out to the hot tub, leaving us to revel in our insanity.

We all ran out of gas around 4 a.m. Fortunately we've got futons, as well as the couch and love seat, so there was plenty of room for bodies to collapse at strategic places around the house. By 4:30 everyone was reasonably well tucked in.

I think the first bodies started to stir around 10:30 a.m. the next morning. By 11, all eyes were open...perhaps a little blearly, but open. I infused myself with coffee, wishing there was a way to mainline it. One of our friends helped hubby whip up a breakfast (brunch?) of Bisquick pancakes and scrambled eggs. We fueled up and kibitzed a bit before the party finally broke up.

For me, it still hasn't sunk in that a new year has begun. I'm sure it's partially because the final weeks of the year were spent frantically finishing up my book. Once I finally hit "send" on the deadline, December 31, life became anticlimatic. Over the next few days I'll shift into "new year" mode. I'll try to exercise more, continue with my avoidance of in-house snacks, and work on getting book contract #2. For now, I just need to recover from the wild revelry of New Years Eve 2009.

An Unseasonably Warm Christmas

This year was the sort of Christmas that reminded me why we moved to Florida. Here in Celebration the days have been unseasonably warm, with temperatures flirting around in the 80s. Back in Chicago, where most of my family is stuck, the weather is bitter and vicious and the streets are coated with ice. For the last few days, the news has been full of horror stories about stranded holiday travelers. Granted, northern winters are never a treat, but this year seems to be much worse than usual.

In Celebration, the only thing I can complain about is a nasty cold that overtook me just in time for the holiday. It struck me down with a head stuffed with snot and a nasty, ragged cough. We didn't have major plans anyway. For Christmas Eve, we just planned to have a nice dinner at the Columbia Restaurant downtown, then pop over to the 7:30 p.m. church service. We usually go at 11 p.m. because there's something so magical about ending the service at midnight with everyone holding candles and singing "Silent Night," but this year, in my peaked condition, the earlier service sounded more appealing. There were 3 and 5 p.m. services too, but by 7:30 I figured it would be dark enough for the candles to have their full effect.

I thought that the Columbia was going to have a special holiday menu, but it turned out to be the regular fare. That was fine with me, as I always enjoy their Spanish/Cuban-style food. Hubby and I ended up splitting a salad, and I had mahi-mahi for dinner. The restaurant was packed to the gills, and the streets were crowded elbow-to-elbow with tourists waiting for the soapy snowfall. Every hour, from 6 to 9 p.m., "snoap" falls on Market Street from Thanksgiving weekend through New Years Eve. Even though I've seen it a million times, it's still fascinating to watch the people dance in bubbly flurries that smell like Ivory Soap.

Since we got done eating fairly quickly, we walked down Front Street to see if we had time for a horse-drawn carriage ride. Unfortunately the wait was long, so we hiked back to the church. As we walked down Celebration Avenue, we noticed a stocking dangling down onto the sidewalk. A family in the condos above were handing out candy canes to the passers-by. Hubby chucked and said, "Only in Celebration!"

It's a good thing we got to church early, as the service was so packed that the people spilled over into the expansion room. Even though there was no communion at 7:30, I was pleased because it featured the handbell choir during the offeratory. I just love bells, so even with my ears feeling like they were stuffed with cotton due to the congestion, I still reveled in the tinkling tones.

I was worried about hacking through the service, but I soon discovered that I wasn't alone. I was merely one small part of a cacophony of coughs that cropped up throughout the sanctuary.

After the service, we stopped at Starbucks so I could sooth my raw throat with a nice, cold iced gingerbread latte. The line stretched back almost to the door, but thankfully it moved quickly. By this time, it was nearly 9 p.m. and people were waiting for the very last snoap-fall of Christmas Eve. We skipped the revelry and headed back home; I'd had enough of the crowd to last me for the evening.

The next day we had booked hot rock massages at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino. we figured we'd have a nice spa treatment, then gamble for a bit, returning to Celebration for a 4 p.m. dinner at the Mona Lisa hotel restaurant. It sounded like a good plan...but it wasn't to be. We found the casino easily, thanks to the wonders of Onstar. In Illinois, when you're nearing a casino there are signs every ten feet till you get there. In Tampa, you'd never even know that the Hard Rock is there because there is no sign at the I-4 exit and no directional signs as you approach. We got lost last time we visited, but this time Onstar guided us right up to the parking garage.

We trudged through the casino and over to the spa, where the receptionist said, "Oh, we wanted to call you but we couldn't find your number." (Duh! I have it to them when I booked the treatments, plus we're listed in the phone book.) "We only have one therapist, so we can only give one of you a massage." Hubby offered to let me take it, but that just didn't seem like a nice, Christmasy thing to do. Besides, I figured that my nose would be dripped and distract me from the relaxation. We opted for neither one of us to have a treatment and figured we'd just start our gambling early.

We both played "Jackpot Party," our favorite slot machine. At one point I would have been up by $60 if I'd simply cashed out, but I ended up giving it back and spending my whole allotment. Hubby quit before he spent all of his, opting to use the rest for lottery tickets. When we first arrived, the casino was sparsely populated, but by the time we left the crowds had arrived. Everybody must have been running over with the money Santa left in their stockings.

Gambling is okay, but I never get too overly excited about it because it was legal in Illinois for years before we came to Florida. It's a novelty when you can't readily do it, but when you live near a casino it's just another expensive activity. Also, because the Hard Rock is owned by the Seminole tribe, it's exempt from Florida's no-smoking laws so I can only stand it in small doses. Fortunately my coughing, hacking and horking of snot kept most of the smokers at bay until it got really crowded. Whenever someone would approach the machine next to me with a cigarette dangling from their lips, I'd work up the grossest, wettest hork I could muster, punctuated with some deep, rattling coughs. That tended to send them in search of safer, less germy climates.

After our minor financial scalping, we returned to Celebration for our Christmas meal. We were running early, so we decided to stop at Walgreens to pick up some pseudoephedrine. I had bought some phenylephrine the day before at Publix, and it didn't work nearly as well. I did some internet research after take some with no noticable effects and found that it's essentially worthless. Unfortunately, pseudoephedrine is kept behind the pharmacy counter at Walgreen's because it can be used to manufacture meth, and when we arrived at the closest Walgreen's we discovered that the pharmacy was closed for Christmas. We headed off to a 24 hour Walgreen's...same thing. Ugh! We stopped at a rinky-dink tourist supermarket, and my hopes soared when I saw that they had the sinus drugs stored behind the counter. Turns out they were just being overaly paranoid and were protecting the worthless phenylephrine-based products. I resigned myself to an evening of dealing with a faucet nose.

We returned to Celebration and popped into the Mona Lisa, where we were seated at a table with a lovely view of the pool. The holiday meal choices were turkey or prime rib, and we both opted for tradition. The stuffing was so wonderfully spiced, and the turkey was stuffed with some sort of cheese (I think...whatever it was was delicious). There was a salad with poached pears and Boursin cheese as a started and creme brulee and a yule log for dessert. The desserts where such a lovely work of art that I almost hated to dig in my spoon.

After dinner we headed home, where I fielded phone greetings from our poor, freezing Chicago relatives and caught the last part of the last showing of "24 Hours of A Christmas Story." Another Christmas was drawing to a close, and it had been a good one despite my annoying cold. Next up: New Years Eve. Hopefully my disease will be gone by then, and if not, I'll make sure that I keep a healthy supply of pseudoephedrine on hand.