It Takes Tu Tu Tango

It was a usual lazy Sunday around Duloc Manor, at least until I uttered those famous words that shatter good marriages everywhere: "Honey, where should we go for lunch?" Of course, the patented reply is, "I don't know," followed by a spirited round of, "Well, I don't know either. That's why I asked you." We volleyed back and forth for a while with, "You pick," "No, you pick," etc., with neither of us willing to commit.

Although we had the same problem back in Chicago, it's infinitely worse in Celebration because of the wide array of choices. In town, we have such gems as Max's (Market Street Cafe, with diner style food), Antonio's (awesome Italian), Seito (sushi...more my husband's bag than mine), and Columbia (Cuban). If you dare to leave The Bubble and venture out onto 192, there are restaurants as far as the eye can see. There are more TGI Friday's, Reb Lobsters, Waffle Houses, and Sizzlers than you can shake a stick at. I'm not fond of buffet chains, but Fridays and Red Lobster are both favorites, and Logan's and Longhorn are always good choices for steak.

Leave town the other way, via World Drive, and you've opened up the entire spectum of Disney World dining. Lunchtime choices are limited at the hotels, but there are lots of favorites in the theme parks (Brown Derby and 50s Prime Time in MGM, just about any of the countries in Epcot). Downtown Disney has some good choices, too, most notably Wolfgang Puck Express and Earl of Sandwich.

If you venture past DD, you'll come to the Crossroads, which is home to Chevy's. I call their menu "fru fru Mexican," as they offer such odd sounding fusion delights as quesidillas with chicken and apple. But don't worry, the guacamole is authentic and the tortillas are homemade by "El Machino," a monstrous looking gas-fueled contraption in the middle of the diningroom. Down the road a bit is Bahama Breeze, a Darden-owned chain serving food with a Caribbean flare.

With all of those choices, and many, many more, chosing a restaurant is quite a dilemma. My husband had a taste for Columbia, but we ate there a lot when we first moved to Celebration so I've reached my sation level. Besides, he had picked our culinary indulgence the day before (Chili's, which had tempted him with their flame-grilled skewer commercials...I'm happy to say they are just as tasty as they look on t.v.). Thus, the onus of where to eat fell squarely on my shoulders.

I toyed with eating at one of the Disney parks, but that can be a pain if it's crowded. We decided to call Garden Grill at Epcot to see if they had any reservations in the near future; that would allow us to enjoy a meal and sneak in a Fast Pass ride on Soaring. But when I called, the only reservations available were a couple of hours away. My rumbling stomach, which had not had any breakfast, refused to wait that long.

I thought we should try something new, so I proposed trying Seasons 52, a Darden "concept" restaurant where everything is supposed to be fresh, tasty, and low-calorie. We always kick it around, but by the time we call, it's too late to get reservations. Our friends say it is fabulous, so I pressured my husband into giving it a try. He moaned and groaned, protesting that he was in the mood for Mexican (sure, he can't decide when I ask him, but he's full of contrary opinions once I make a choice). Finally, we compromised on Chevy's.

But as I drove through Downtown Disney, heading towards the Crossroads, I felt a streak of rebellion. I was the driver; if I decided to go to Seasons 52, there was no way hubby could stop me. Instead of going straight, I turned left onto Vineland and headed out towards Dr. Phillips and a new culinary experience.

As we tooled along toward Sand Lake Road, my husband said, "I'll bet they're not open for lunch." Hmmm, that was good logic. For some reason, a lot of the restaurants in that area are only open for dinner. But I dismissed him airly: "If they're closed, then we'll just find another place. We're going to try something new today."

Sure enough, as we approached the restaurant, the empty parking lot confirmed my worst fears. Once again, Seasons 52 would remain something to aspire too. I pulled out of the lot, mentally running through the restaurants that I knew of in the area. Nothing really jumped out at us in appeal, so I decided to head to I-Drive and turn in the direction of Disney World. There are a lot of attractions on that strip, and where you find tourists traps, you'll also find plenty of eateries.

My husband was still prattling on about Mexican, and he had subliminally lured me into his craving. We spotted a likely looking restauant called Don Pedro's or something like that, but when we pulled in, we discovered that it was closed for a private party. There were plenty of the usual chains, like Friday's, Bennigan's, Houlihan's, and even Bahama Breeze, but I was still determined to try something new.

Finally, we saw a brightly decorated building on the left; I didn't catch the name, but it looked like it might be Mexican. We zipped into a U-turn lane and headed back. There were lots of cars in the parking lot...a good sign. The sign said "Cafe Tu Tu Tango," which caused my husband and I to stare at each other in confusion. Goodness only knows what sort of ethnic experience that name might entail. Cafe Tu Tu sounded like a French ballet, but it didn't look much like a Parisian bistro. There is a restaurant in Chicago called Tango Sur that serves the most awesome Argentine beef but this place didn't strike me as an Argentine steakhouse.

Oh well, at this point we were ready to try anything, so we headed inside to take a culinary gamble. Turns out that Cafe Tu Tu Tango is a tapas bar, serving appetizer portions that are meant to be shared. I am a big tapas fan, as we had some wonderful tapas bars in Chicago, so I was pleased that we'd stumbled onto a place with the potential to become a new favorite.

In theory, tapas is Spanish. In practice, I've seen tapas bars that serve food inspired by just about any ethnicity. Cafe Tu Tu Tango was of the eclectic variety, with Spanish selections such as Spanish antipasto, Italian inspired pizzas, Cajun chicken rolls, Cuban beef skewers, Oriental-sounding tuna sashimi and pork pot stickers, and even all-American sloppy Joe empanadas (they had some authentic beef empanadas, too). For the adventurous, there are even alligator bites (one of the rare times when the human gets to bite the gator).

My husband and I were overwhelmed by the vast array of choices. Thank goodness that tapas are small and meant to be shared, which means that we could try a variety of items. But when our server showed up, he muddied the water by giving us a list of "Chef's Specials" that were just as tempting as the regular menu items.

We settled on two specials (lobster in puff pastry and asparagus with almond and citrus zest), plus the traditional empanadas and mandarin pork pot stickers. While we waited, we munched on delicious fresh breads with hummus and sipped mango iced tea (there is a great selection of interntional beers, wines, and mixed drinks, but my husband had to get up early the next morning to fly to Chicago, so he abstained...drinking makes him sleepy).

The restaurant's slogan is "Food for the Starving Artist," and their decor is centered around artwork crafted by local talents. There was an artisan at work just inside the front door; when we arrived, he was painting, and by the time we left, he had switched to the medium of clay. Just about every bit of free wall space is covered by canvases, and the windsills and counters are crammed with scultures and pottery. Virtually all of the artwork is for sale; if you're looking for a unique piece, this might be a good place to find it.

The food was totally and utterly to die for, especially the lobster in puff pastry. Before my husband took a bite, I tried to convince him that it was awful and that I'd be doing him a favor by eating his portion too. Unfortunately, he didn't fall for it. His favorite was the pork rolls, which had a slight spicy kick.

Three tapas and a vegetable were more than enough for the two of us, especially since I had filled up on bread. But the desserts were so intriguing that we just had to try them. The special of the day was a fried Twinkie...yes, a fried Twinkie. They were encased in what tasted like funnel cake dough and surrounded by a delicious white sauce that was peppered with blueberries. We also got banana pizza, which had a godly streusel coating spread on the sweet flatbread.

As we left the restaurant, my husband had to admit that it has been a good idea to expand our horizons. There are several other menu items that we want to try, so I suspect that this new discovery will enhance our marital harmony. The next time one of us asks, "What do you want to do for lunch?", the reponse won't be "I don't know." It wil be "Cafe Tu Tu Tango!"

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com

Don't Dream It...BE It

Recently, I visited Epcot with my neighbors, and we paused to watch the fountain in Future World as it launched into one of its choreographed performances. Every 15 minutes, the water shoots and arcs and sprays in tandem with a randomly selected song. I know it's random because you can get a list at Guest Services; you'll know which songs you might hear, but I was informed that they're not played on any set schedule.

Just in case you're wondering, the songs are:

Selection from Disney's animated feature "Rescuers Down Under"

Instrumental from the "Air Battle" sequence from Surprise in the Skies, a former daytime lagoon show at Epcot

Selection for a proposed Epcot show "Around the World with Mickey Mouse"

Selection from the Disney live-action feature film The Rocketeer

"Day One" by John Tesh

"Standing in Motion" by Yanni

Selection from the Disney live-action feature film Iron Will

I enjoy several of the songs, but my favorite is Yanni's "Standing In Motion." With its swelling, jubilant sounds, it's perfect for a fountain ballet. Back when my husband and I used to visit Disney World a couple of times a year (or maybe three or four or five), I never felt that my trip was complete without seeing at least one Yanni fountain performance. Somehow, it always seemed that we ended up at Epcot on the last morning of our trips, squeezing in the last few precious hours before we had to head to the airport. Often, God would smile down at me, and as we enjoyed a pasterie at the Fountain View Bakery, I'd hear the strains of Yanni and be able to cap my trip with one of my favorite Disney World experiences. Yes, the thrill rides and shows are fun, but the fountain is one of those overlooked attractions that I will always love.

That visit with my neighbors was the first time I'd seen the fountain perform since I'd moved to Celebration. I had been to Epcot a few times, but for some reason it was always shut down. Now, as we passed by at a quarter past the hour, the speakers cranked up and, believe it or not, it was Yanni! The three of us paused, watching in awe, while the oblivious crowd of tourists flowed around us. They were so intent on getting in another ride that they couldn't see the beauty right in front of them.

When it was over, I realized that for once the fountain didn't herald my leaving. In the past, it was always bittersweet because soon I'd be saying goodbye to Disney World and winging my way back to Chicago. But this time, there was no hurry to leave, and when I did finally decide to call it a day, I'd only be heading a few miles down the road. I wouldn't be 1200 miles away; I'd be in a place where I could hear the muted explosions of Illuminations right from my front porch.

This same sense washed over me again when my husband and I ate at Jiko last night. Located in the Animal Kingdom Lodge, Jiko is an absolutely wonderful restaurant serving African-themed cuisine. As usual, the hotel was bustling with activity: tourists rushing out to catch a bus or in to crash in their hotel room or out to see the animals or take a dip in the pool or in to spend their last dollars in the gift shop. I love to people-watch, but after a while it makes my head spin!

Fortunately, the pace is more leisurely in the restaurant. We were seated by a window, so in addition to watching a constant stream of guests, we got to see Mama Duck and her five fuzzy babies swimming proudly in a pool of water. Our server told us the little ones had just been hatched that morning, and already they were swimming like pros.

When we were done with our meal and on our way back to the car, I noticed many luggage carts laden with suitcases and souvenir bags. Each cart represented an unfortunate family whose vacation had come to an end. I know how that feels from many years of personal experience; no matter how long our Disney World vacations were actually booked for, the time flew by in a heartbeat. We usually tried to stay from a Friday night or Saturday morning through the following Sunday night, giving us nearly nine days. But before we knew it, the trip would be half over. Then, like a roller coaster train cresting a hill and plummeting down at breakneck speed, the passing days would flash by. Suddenly they were all gone, and it was time to return to reality again. We'd sit, forlorn, on the benches in front of the hotel waiting with our luggage for our ride to the airport.

I used to feel so depressed, watching for the towncar to pick us up. I knew that I was very lucky to be able to vacation at Disney World regularly, but somehow it was never long enough. I suspected that even a month wouldn't be enough; even though family and friends thought I was crazy, and that I would eventually get tired of visiting the Mouse, I knew in my heart that it would never happen.

Now, as we climbed into Canyonero, I realized that I'll never have to feel that way again. I can come and go as a please at the Disney World resort. I don't have to wait weeks and months for those precious vacations; whenever I have a spare hour or two, I can sneak off and become a wide-eyed kid again, running amok in Fantasy Land. There's no more melancholy because "going home" really means going right next door, to Celebration.

This led me to ponder how fortunate I am. How many people can truthfully say that they are Mickey's neighbors? It took some belt tightening, but we were very lucky to be able to swing the move to Florida.

Of course, the move was frightening at first. Since both my husband and I are life-long Chicagoans, it was quite a change for us. At the time, I didn't think that I'd be able to keep my primary job, so I was worried about starting up a counseling practice while running my travel agency, too. It takes time to get a business going, but household bills don't wait.

But somehow, everything worked out for the best. I am able to telecommute (or would that be wi-fi/laptop commute?), and the travel agency is doing pretty good. I miss being an active counselor, but someday I'll manage to work that into my multiple careers again.

I know a lot of people who say, "I'd like to move to Florida when I retire," or "I'd like to travel a lot when I retire," or whatever their personal dream might be. Originally, my husband and I thought of moving to Florida as something we'd do many years down the road; certainly not as a spur-of-the-moment decision! But I've never had any regrets, and it's made me less afraid of risk taking. I tend to be a consummate planner who likes to look at situations from every posible angle. Only when I've considered every possibility and analyzed every potential outcome do I feel comfortable with moving forward.

That kind of approach would not have worked with moving to Celebration. By the time I would have finished doing my analysis, we'd have been priced right out of the market. It was only by acting quickly and decisively on our dream that we were able to make it reality.

And sometimes, "someday" never comes. You never know when an accident or illness or other unforseen event might suddenly shatter your world. I think about all those poor souls trapped in the World Trade Center or onboard those ill-fated airplanes on that dark day of September 11. All of their hopes and dreams were ended abruptly by the actions of hate-filled madmen. When they left for work that morning, or boarded the aircraft, I'm sure that none of them had any idea that their lives would suddenly be cut short. I can't predict the future, but if I ever find myself in a similar situation, I don't want to be thinking, "If only I'd done (insert dream here)."

All of these deep thoughts bring to mind one of my favorite quotes, taken from "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." Towards the end, there is a big production number, with Dr. Frank N. Furter (a cross-dressing mad scientist with a fondness for teddies, played by Tim Curry) singing, "Don't dream it, be it." That's really wise advice, especially coming from a man in make-up, a wig, and fishnet stockings. If you waste your whole life dreaming, the time for being can fly by as quickly as those precious vacation days.

I guess that I've always believed in "being." I loved horses as a teenager, but my mother was not a very supportive person. I took a bus to the stable every weekend, learned to ride by working as a trail guide, and got a job when I was 16 so I would buy and support a horse of my own. I'm 40 years old now, and I still have that horse, although he's rather crotchety and mostly retired these days.

I turned my dreams of being a writer into stacks of magazine tearsheets, slogging determinedly through the rejection slips to finally see my name in print and receive that proud first check. I did have to put some of my dreams on hold, like getting my masters and doctorate degrees, because life responsibilities and financial limitations intruded. But I never forgot them, and I'm still busy achieving them; I recently reached my educational goals, and I'm already working on the next set of dreams.

Living in Florida is another goal that I've been fortunate enough to turn into reality through a combination of luck and hard work. On all those melancholy days of returning to Chicago, little did I suspect that someday soon I would never have to do that again. Dreaming is fun, but being is so much better. And being in Celebration is a dream come true for me.

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com

A Long Time Ago, In a State Far, Far Away

Tonight, my life came full circle...I saw Episode Three of "Star Wars" at the movie theater in downtown Celebration, completing the six-movie saga that defined not only my own generation, but also those that followed. How many other things incite passion throughout the entire age spectrum, from tail-end Baby Boomers all the way through Generation X and right down into Y?

Was it really nearly 30 years ago that I saw the original "Star Wars," now dubbed "Episode Four: A New Hope," at the Ford City Mall theater in Chicago? At the time, I wasn't even a teenager yet. At 12 years old, I was a mere "baby" who had yet to visit Florida; that wouldn't happen for another decade or so. I had no idea that on some distant day, my 40-year-old self would see the last movie in the series at a theater 1200 miles to the south. Of course, at that time, no one (probably not even George Lucas) knew that there would be any sequels/prequels, let alone five of them.

Actually, I wasn't even planning to see "Revenge of the Sith" until it came on cable. I was a major fan of the first three movies, particularly "Return of the Jedi." I lost count of the number of times that I saw "Jedi" on the big screen. I had a good friend who was a fellow "Star Wars" fanatic, and she and I spent almost every weekend that summer parked in the front row of the local theater. We'd leave with whanging headaches from the up-close viewing, but it was worth it for the landspeeder scene.

But then, "The Phantom Menace" came along and disgruntled me to a degree that I didn't think was possible. It wasn't only Jar Jar Binks, although he was enough on his own to make me realize that George Lucas had gone completely senile. But the whole fatherless birth of Anakin and the midochlorians being responsible for the Force went a bit too far. If the Force is organic, just how the heck do the Jedi communicate with their dead comrades? Wouldn't a dead person be fresh out of blood once they become a spiritual essence? And having Anakin build C3PO seemed like a forced attempt to tie the movies together.

Due to my disenchantment, I never saw "Attack of the Clones" in its entirety. I caught bits and pieces on cable, so I know the general jist, but I never sat through it from beginning to end. Thus, I was probably one of the only people in the world who didn't catch "Star Wars Fever" as the release of Episode Three grew nigh.

My husband is a Trekkie (not the costume-wearing, convention-attending, Klingon-speaking sort, thank goodness), and after our marriage I enticed him to become a fan of "Quantum Leap," but he's never been much of a Star Wars nerd. What little enjoyment he'd derived from the first three was destroyed by the next two disappointing chapters. Between the two of us, it looked like we wouldn't be seeing "Revenge of the Sith" any time soon.

Some of our friends were planning to go, but we declined. I was a bit tempted, but I kept reminding myself that I'd probably be stepping right into another disappointment. Still, the idea of seeing the "birth" of Darth Vader was appealing. The material was there...the potential was there...could Lucas have regained his sanity? Was it at all possible that he'd do it correctly this time around?

This week, another friend called; she had an extra ticket for a Thursday evening showing. My husband still had no interest, but I caved in to temptation and decided to go. If nothing else, it would be fun to join the opening-day crowd and get caught up in the air of excitement.

Hedging my bets, I logged on to Epinions on Thursday morning to read reviews from the midnight die-hards. Their reports gave me reason for a new hope, they were almost unfailingly positive. Hard core "Star Wars" nerds don't hesitate to rip something to shreds when it doesn't meet their expectations. I remember all the awful opinions of the first two. But this time around, there was a definite trend toward the positive. Dare I allow myself to feel hopeful? By the time I had slogged my way through a slew of reviews, I was feeling some cautious optimism.

My friends drove up in their NEV (Neighborhood Electric Vehicle) so we could carpool to downtown Celebration. There are is some NEV-only right across from the theater. Amazingly, no cars had ignored the signs and taken them over, so we got a prime spot.

It was almost an hour before the start time, but a line was already forming in front of the theater. They had erected Disney-style queues in anticipation of the crowd. I was mildly disappointed that no one was in costume, but I guess all the hard-core fans had already been to the 12:01 a.m. screening.

We were early enough to snare decent seats in the balcony, which affords a nice, wide view of the screen. Once we had settled in, we made some runs to the concession stand to stock up on provisions for the long evening ahead (the movie runs nearly two and a half hours). Against my better judgement, I bought a bag of popcorn and a box of Raisinettes. I didn't need to extra calories, but I was hoping that the movie would be exciting enough to bring on a case of the mindless munchies.

While working my way through the salty popcorn as I watched the trivia slides, and then the trailers, I realized that I had made a grave error. The more I ate, the thirstier I got. I had a bottle of water, but I'd already drank most of it and the movie hadn't even begun yet. I'd been hoping to see the trailer for "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" (with Tim Burton directing and Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka, how can it be anything but pure gold?), but I realized that I should refill my water before the movie began.

I waited through four trailers, with no Willy Wonka in sight, and finally I climbed my way over all the people and dashed downstairs to the water fountain. I needn't have hurried; the trailers were still going strong when I returned, and CATCF never materialized. I was mildly disappointed because I saw a great Wonka ad on Fox last weekend, showing Veruca Salt being bitch-slapped by enraged squirrels. I'd been looking forward to a panoramic version, but no such luck.

FINALLY, the big moment arrived. The crowd let out a spontaneous cheer as the feature presentation began. Of course, it kicked off with the famous "rolling text," helping the uninitiated (or forgetful) get caught up with the plot. Actually, I don't think there's anyone in America, save for deviants in mountain shacks and hermits lost in caves, who doesn't have at least a rudimentary knowledge of the basic "Star Wars" plot.

Next, we were immediately plunged into the midst of a raging, CGI-heavy battle scene. Anakin and Obi Wan were on an important rescue mission, which featured lots of spacecraft maneuvers, lasers, and explosions in true "Star Wars" style.

In case you are one of the seven people in America who doesn't know the plot line, I don't want to give it away here. But suffice it to say that this movie redeemed George Lucas, at least in my eyes, for the sins he committed while making the other two prequels. Those two movies were plodding and dull, and they ripped enormous plot holes into the fabric of the "Star Wars" universe. Worse yet, they featured Jar Jar Binks, perhaps the most annoying CGI creature ever to grace a movie screen. I know that George Lucas is fond of digitally tinkering with his movies and releasing "updated" versions. I wish he would do the world a favor and release a version of "Phantom Menace" in which Jar Jar is executed within the first 10 minutes.

In contrast, "Sith" was a perfect combination of the non-stop of "Return of the Jedi," melded with the darkness of "The Empire Strikes Back." The action begins on the first frame and doesn't let up until the moment that the credits start to roll, all counterpointed by the usual rousing John Williams score. It is NOT a movie for young children by any stretch of the imagination. For example, the image of a horribly decapitated Anakin, dragging himself out of a lava river while he is literally ablaze, could instigate nightmares in all but the most violence-desensitized video gaming youngsters.

Normally I prefer seeing movies in the comfort and quiet of my own home, but "Revenge of the Sith" is best viewed on the big screen so you can get the full effect of all the high-tech wizardry. And since it's an "event" movie, it's fun to have the energy of a capacity audience all around you. It's like a perfectly attuned group consciousness that yells and cheers as one as Yoda kicks some serious ass, applauds wildly at the battle sequences, and dabs at misty eyes at the tear-jerking ending (you know that it's coming, but you still can't help it). After more than two decades, I'm a Star Wars fan once again.

Coincidentally, "Star Wars Weekends" is being held at Disney MGM this Saturday and Sunday. Normally, I avoid the parks whenever there's an event that might draw a crowd of any magnitude. This year, I'm going to break my own cardinal rule and take a swing by the Studio to check it out. And who knows, I might even head back to the Celebration AMC Theater before "Revenge of the Sith" leaves town to see it one more time (or maybe two). I may be a lot older than I was when "Jedi" came out, but's fun to be excited about a movie again.

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com

Time of the Season

The other day, while tooling along to Publix in Canyonero, I heard a strange ad on the radio. Apparently it was advertising vacation property in Tennessee. Nothing strange about that; TN is a very lovely state, particularly the Smoky Mountains. My husband and I have spent some memorable vacations there, hiking, white water rafting, and horseback riding (and, of course, stopping off at Dollywood and the Dixie Stampede).

No, the strange thing was the tag line: "Come to a place where the seasons actually change." Perhaps that would be appealing to native Floridians, whose only knowledge of seasons is "Warm," "Hot," and "Hotter," but not to a Midwestern transplant like me. I've seen enough of the changing seasons to last me a lifetime. Since people who were born and bred in Florida are an endangered species, I can't imagine that commercial having a lot of broad appeal.

I guess that the changing seasons are nice in their own way. Problem is, the good seasons (i.e. spring and fall) are much too short. The bad season (winter) seems to last forever once its icy fingers take hold to choke the last bit of life out of the shedding trees and dying greenery and to paint the sunny skies a depressing shade of gray. Summer is short, too, but I've never been all that partial to it, other than enjoying the days when it's hot enough to swim. But there are enough indoor pools around the Chicago area to offset that appeal. I'd rather have a spring or fall day in the 70s than be sweating like a hog in 90 degree heat.

Okay, you might be thinking, if you don't like temperatures in the 90s, you must be miserable in Florida. Sure, we get our share of "rainforest weather" (blistering heat, humidity that you can cut with a knife, and regular afternoon monsoons). But we also have a fall that never turns into winter. It just drags itself out until it finally gets exhausted and turns the reins over to spring. Then, we get Mary Poppins weather (practically perfect in every way) for a couple of precious, heavenly months. When that's over, we're stuck with Hot Topic t-shirt weather until fall rolls around again.

In case you're not familiar with Hot Topic, it's a store that sells t-shirts with offbeat slogans. They have a shirt for every state, and Florida's says: "Like Hell...Only Hotter." Personally, I think they should have borrowed a line from Homer Simpson and made it "American's Wang," but a case can be made for the heat slogan, too.

We do have some trees that shed their leaves, and the nippy weather forces gardeners to switch over to mums and poinsettias. We might even have (gasp!) a frost or two or three. I don't need to travel all the way to Tennessee; that's plenty of season changes for me.

I must admit that I'm already missing springtime, as it is quickly segueing into a steaming summer. I was spoiled by the breezy, balmy days, basking in the sunshine as opposed to baking. Now, the temperature is working its way upward. I go walking early every morning, and I typically don shorts and a t-shirt. On some recent mornings, it used downright chilly; my blood is still thick enough to gut my way through it, but the friend who joins me would often be shivering in sweat pants and a jacket. But now, the mugginess hits me the moment I leave my air conditioned environment. Canyonero's digital display used to tell me that the temp was in the 60s or 70s (or sometimes even in the 50s), but now it's not unusual for the day to kick off as high as 81 and to flirt with 90 by the afternoon.

Today is one of those days. By the end of our walk, I was perspiring like a racehorse that had just run the Kentucky Derby. But the heat doesn't dissuade me; it just allows me to justify a stop at Barnie's for a decadent frozen coffee concoction.

Actually, this morning we hiked over to Water Tower Place to check out the new Goodings, which has been slated to open since April. Now it's May, and the site still definitely looks "under construction." But it's a lot closer to opening, as evidenced by the shelves and signage inside. Virtually everyone in Celebration is holding their collective breath to see if Goodings will be a real grocery store, geared to the needs of the locals, or a tourist trap like their location in the Crossroads by Disney World. Anyway, since we were at WTP, it was a good excuse to break with routine and have a smoothie instead of the usual White Chocolate Cherry Freezer.

Now, I'm holed up inside with the air conditioning on and the ceiling fans a-spinning. Florida is prime pnemonia country, as most businesses and many people keep their air conditioners set at "Meat Locker." Outside, eggs are frying on the sidewalks. Inside, you can see your breath, and Walt Disney's cryogenic cell is propped up against the wall.

To some extent, the "hot as hell" label is a myth, at least in the northern-most sections of the Sunshine State. I learned that firsthand when driving the Kitty Karavan in January. My husband and I were both niave enough to believe that once we passed through Tennessee, we wouldn't have to worry about snow. We didn't bother to watch the weather forecast; we figured were leaving winter behind, and good riddance. Little did we know that winter was nipping at our heels, ready to dump on us with a vengence. The infamous Atlanta Ice Storm of 2005 turned the roads into a skating rink and stretched our 18 hour drive into 24.

Once we got out of the city and neared the Georgia/Florida border, the ice gave way to snow and slush. I thought it would somehow magically disappear once we reached our new home state. But we were still many hours from Celebration, and the slush dogged us well over the border. I'm glad that we live in Central Florida, as the panhandle is still a bit too close to those "changing seasons" for my taste.

Tennessee can keep its changing seasons; I've seen enough of winter to last me a lifetime. Warm, hot, and hotter...those are the seasons for me.

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com

Famous Last Words

Famous last words: "Let's just go to Epcot for lunch."

I had cabin fever this week, as the weather has been absolutely gorgeous...lots of sunshine and warmth, with low humidity. We did have some thunderstorms on Wednesday, but overall this week we're been blessed with clear, blue, sun-kissed skies and nary a raindrop. I guess the rain clouds exhausted themselves last week.

My husband is in the Midwest this week, so I've been trying to be a good girl, working during the day and trying to make some headway with house cleaning at night (a losing battle when you own three cats and a bird). But this afternoon, I just couldn't help it. I had to get to the theme parks. I decided to knock off work early, as I can make up the hours over the weekend. I'd been lusting for a beet and goat cheese salad ever since I saw it in the new Land food court on my last visit. I figured that would make a tasty lunch, and with any luck I could Fast Pass Soarin' too.

My next door neighbors are fellow Disney fanatics, so I stopped by to see if they'd had lunch yet. I had the best of intentions; a quick trip to Epcot, where we would et our Fast Passes, eat, ride and run. That way, I could get in a couple more hours of work and maybe wash my filthy downstairs floor, too. I remember how I used to wonder why most people in Florida have tile instead of carpet in their main floor living areas. Believe me, now I know, as I constantly track mulch and mud into the family room and front foyer.

They hadn't eaten yet, and they'd actually been considering going to Disney World themselves. Our houses are very close rogether, so perhaps their psychic "Go to the theme park" vibes were beaming into my brain through the family room wall. Soon we had all piled into Canyonero and headed off to Epcot.

Thankfully, I have an AAA Diamond parking pass, a handy dandy little item that allows you to park in a special area, near the handicapped parking. You get it if you book a vacation package through AAA, and I was fortunate to "inherit" one from someone who was done with it. You can often find them on Ebay in the $20 to $30 range, and if you visit the theme parks a lot, they are well worth every penny. They are good for one calendar year, so you wouldn't want to purchase one in November or December, but they're great if you can get one early enough.

The parking lot was pretty full, but we found a great spot in the AAA area. Actually, I don't mind a long walk from the parking lot, but I do mind riding the trams. At busy times, getting a tram seat in akin in difficulty level to getting the latest fad toy at Christmas. Unless you have a cattle prod that you can flail with the finesse of a Jedi Knight weilding his light saber, you're probably going to be in for a long wait.

I'm from Chicago, so I know how to be extremely assetive (i.e. rude and pushy) when it's called for. But I don't like to subject myself to unneeded stress in a place that I've come to have fun, so I avoid the whole parking tram cattle call whenever possible.

In our AAA spot, it was only a short walk to the front gate. Since it was already around 2 p.m., there weren't too many people entering the park. Our bags were searched and we headed in, anxious to make our way to the Land pavillion for a good lunch and a great ride.

We got our Soarin' Fast Passes and headed to the food court, which was jam packed as though Wolfgang Puck himself, or perhaps Emeril, was personally doing the cooking. We all ended up getting soup and salad; I stuck with my original choice of beet and goat cheese salad, liberally sprinkled with sugar-coated nuts. The soup was a harder option, as they had the cheese and beer soup from Canada, but also a curried pea soup. The curry was very tempting, but my innate obsession with cheese finally won.

We had to wander a bit to find a table, but finally we managed to stake out our own little corner of the food court. The salad was just as delicious as its description had implied, and the cheese soup was as wonderful as always. When we were done eating, we still had a bit of time so we headed over to the "Living With The Land" boat ride. Sure, it's corny, but I always enjoy the greenhouses. This time, it was much better than usual because our "skipper" was apparently a refugee from the Jungle Cruise who kept up a humorous patter the whole way.

Next, it was back to "Soarin'," and before we got in line, we grabbed another Fast Pass. Yes, I know we had only come for lunch, but who knows...we might decide to stay a little longer. If not, we could always give the passes to someone.

I am an old hand at "Soarin'," but it was a brand new experience for my neighbors. We settled into the "hang glider" and were swept up for our ariel tour of the California landscape. It's an ADHD version, that rapidly cycles from the pine forests to the rivers to a golf course, orange groves, snowy mountains and even to Disneyland. I was pleased to note by the rapt expressions on their faces that they were enjoying it just as much as I was.

After our quick trip to the Left Coast, we decided to grab a ride on "Test Track," then visit with Crush the turtle at the Living Seas pavillion. Unless Epcot is extremely crowded, you can usually get on within 10 minutes you're willing to use the Single Riders Line. Your party will be split up, but that's a fair exchange for lopping at least half an hour off your waiting time. Actually, two of us ended up in the same car anyway.

My husband describes "Test Track" as a giant slot car set, and that's not too far from the truth. I can just picture some giant kid running his playset through its paces. For a long time, "Test Track" was "The Ride That Will Never Open." It ran many. many long months over its targeted opening date and far over budget. Even now, random breakdowns are not uncommon, and they shut it down at the slightest hint of rain. But it's a cute ride, and I love the exhilerating finale where you zoom around the outside track, supposedly at 64.8 m.p.h. (or so the digital "speedometer" always proclaims). I suspect that it's much slower, but it feels really fast.

Once, in the ride's early days, it shut down just as my husband and I were rocketing through that part. I am amazed at just how quickly we went from travelling full blast to a dead stop. You could literally smell the melted rubber. It must not have been a catastrophic failure, as they got us moving again before too long. But since that time, all of my rides on the giant slot cars have been flawless.

On the way to "Test Track," we stopped at one of the lesser-known Epcot attractions: Ice Station Cool. Unbelievably, my neighbors had never been in there! I love Ice Station Cool, which features samples of Coke products from around the world. Some, like Vegibeta and Smart Watermelon, are delicious, although your teeth will chatter from the sugar. Others, such as Beverly, should only be inflicted on your worst enemy.

Next on the agenda was Crush; I had heard that his new show was a technological marvel in which he literally talks to the audience. Not a pre-recorded spiel, but a real-time dialogue. We headed into the "hydrolaters" and wandered around the newly revamped displays. There is a heavy Nemo theme, will all sorts of aquatic critters from the movie. I saw rays, jellies, seahorses, Dories, Nemos, and even a Gil. Then we joined the crowd waiting to enter the theater and meeting the famous 150 year old sea turtle dude himself.

The show was just as amazing as I'd heard. It's an absolute gem of technology! A computer-animated Crush swims out and interacts with the audience, calling on specific people and answering their questions spontaneously. His mouth, and even his facial expressions, move in appropriate sync with the conversation. As the little children sat raptly, no doubt believing that they were conversing with a sea turtle, my mind was racing to figure out the mechanics behind the magic. Someone has to be able to see the audience, and the animation software has to be synced in real-time to the spoken responses. And of course, there must be someone performing as Crush, and he has to be a fast thinker in order to respond appropriately (and humorously). I'm sure that most audiences ask the same sorts of questions, but every now and then there is probably someone who throws in a doozy.

By now, it had been a long time since the lunch that had been the original purpose of our visit. My neighbors suggested that we check out the new incarnation of the Garden Grill. That's the spinning restaurant that rotates through several "Living With the Land" scenes as you dine with Mickey and is friends. I didn't think we'd be able to get in without a priority seating reservation, but it never hurts to ask.

Turns out, our timing was perfect; we were seated within five minutes. The restaurant's rotation was on the blink, but the characters were all present and accounted for: throughout our meal, we spotted Mickey, Chip, Dale, and Pluto visiting the tables. I cringe when I see people wasting valuable theme park time waiting in line for character photos. If I had little ones, I'd spend my park time on rides and book character meals to get my pictures in a leisurely, stress-free environment. Mickey and the gang come right to everyone's table and allow plenty of time for hugs and photos. You can choose your characters, too: for example, there are princess breakfasts and a Winnie the Pooh character dining experience at Crystal Palace in the Magic Kingdom. There used to be a villians dinner, but sadly I don't think it's offered anymore.

Garden Grill used to be an all-you-can-eat restaurant with a fixed menu (I loved their catfish and beef brisket). Now, it's pay-one-price ($21.99 for adults), but you don't get to stuff your face until you burst. You get bread with three dipping sauces, salad, and your choice of entree from a variety of options. You also get a non-alcoholic beverage, and the meal is topped off with chocolate fondue with various sweets for dipping (marshmallows, chocolate cake, vanilla cake, strawberries, pineapples, and gummi worms).

We each chose a different entree. I had portabello mushroom-stuffed ravioli with vegetables, which was quite delicious. I tasted my neighbor's red snapper, and that was a good option too. Even though it wasn't all-you-can-eat, we couldn't make it all the way through the fondue before we had to throw in the towel.

By now, it was time for our second round of "Soarin'." We hopped into the Fast Pass line and awaited the best ride at Epcot. There was some sort of family configuration in front of us (two adult females and a gaggle of children), and one of the women kept trying to butt into our conversation. Since she was apparently only hearing part of it because she was also intermittently yelling at the kids, her comments were out of context. For example, we were talking about "Mission: Space," which I refuse to do because I just don't get along with spinning rides. I can ride a roller coaster all day long with no ill effects, but put me through one round on the teacups and I'm dizzy for the rest of the day.

My husband likes "Mission: Space," so I've spent a lot of time waiting at the exit. I was telling my neighbors about all of the people who I've seen puking their guts, and I jokingly said, "If I rode that thing, I'd be one of them." The stranger-butter-inner said loudly, "Oooo, I hope that I get to sit behind you." We ignored her, and the other woman with her pointed out that we were not talking about "Soarin'."

Throughout our wait, she made some other inane comments, and we studiously ignored her. I have a doctorate in psychology, but I still have no idea what compel some people to interject their questionable wisdom into other people's conversations. It's not like she was by herself and, therefore, lonely or bored. She didn't seem to be an expert in any of the fields we were discussing, so it's not like her comments were particularly enlightening. With the kids running amok, she wasn't even able to devote her full attention in order to make intelligent, relative comments.

Soon enough, we were herded into the simulator room. The first time around, we had been in row one, i.e. the highest once the contraption gets going. This time, we were assigned to row three, the lowest. You can't really tell how high you are once the show begins, but unless you're on the top, you'll be distracted by all the dangling fit at the top of your visual field. I pointed this out to my neighbors, and the verbose stranger, who was strapped in next to me, favored me with this pearl of wisdom: "You should wear a baseball hat." Then, mercifully, we were suddenly swept up and away, and the sound track drowned out any further inanities.

"Soarin'" was as great as always. It's hard to explain the exhilirating feeling, except that it reminds me of how I feel when I see "Illuminations." It's much more a show than a thrill ride, but it's something I could do again and again. Even the soundtrack is on a par with "Illuminations" or the music from the old Millenium parade.

By now, it 8 p.m. Lunchtime was long past, and dusk was painting over the daytime sky. Somehow, many hours had slipped away since we began our "short" visit. We weren't quite to leave yet, so we headed toward "Ellen's Energy Adventure." No trip to Epcot is complete without getting sneezed on or drooled on by the dinosaurs. Unfortunately, our need to see prehistoric beasts would have to remain unrequited, as the ride had closed at 7.

Reluctantly, we decided to bring our lunchtime jaunt to a close. As we headed to the parking lot, I reflected on my Famous Last Words, uttered back when the day was still new. Can anyone really visit a Disney Park "just for lunch" without overstaying their intended timeframe and sneaking in at least one ride or show? I know that I can't; I'm the first person to admit that my willpower is weak when it comes to resisting a theme park's siren song. I'm just glad that my neighbors are as bad as me; that's why Celebration is such a cool place to live.

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com

Front Porches

One of the best things about Celebration is its proliferation of king-sized front porches. While they're not present on all of the home styles, there are enough of them in most areas to create a conjenial neighborhood atmosphere.

While backyards are nice, I enjoy sitting out front because it offers a wider perspective on the neighborhood. You can watch people jogging, biking, or roller blading by, see dog owners enjoying a stroll with their pets, and greet neighbors who venture outdoors. Often, this results in a friendly chat or even a full-blown visit.

I love to relax in the friendly confines of Duloc Manor's front porch. Even though it's a triplex, we're fortunate to have a large enough porch to hang a swing and arrange a chair or two. It doesn't compare to the Victorian homes, with their gorgeous wraparounds that make me sigh with envy, but it's better than the Colonials that have a barren staircase and nothing more.

Originally, our building was slated to be Colonial style. When we were given the initial paperwork, that's what the illustration showed. The Cambridge representative told us to disregard the drawing because it had been changed to a Craftsman, identical to the model we had viewed. That made me very happy because I'd enough room for the swing I'd been dreaming of.

If we'd been stuck with a Colonial, I know I could have gotten an A-frame swing for the backyard. Years ago, I had one in our 70s-era avocado townhome, which had nothing in front but a tiny concrete stoop. In the back, we had a postage-stamp sized backyard with a privacy fence that backed onto a large apartment building. There was just enough room for a swing and gas grill, so I spent a lot of time rocking back there while watching one of the apartment dweller's dogs digging its way under our fence. I think the poor canine was lonely; he seemed like a friendly and harmless sort. At the time, we owned a very dog-oriented cat, so I'd take our feline outside and let him sniff noses with his doggy neighbor.

Since our fence was very high, I would let our two cats loose (as long as I was out with them). But one day, one of them took a flying leap at the fence. He made it halfway up before I was able to abort his escape attempt. After that, he was put on "leash arrest." Eventually, my husband built an open-bottomed cat cage so the kitties could get some air and roll in the grass without running off and becoming road pizza.

In Celebration, our new feline trio is confined to leashes (the original cats got old and went to kitty heaven a few years back). When I'm out on the porch, I tie them out on long enough ropes to allow them to prowl the perimeter of our front plot. I don't allow them to stay out unattended; I sit out on my porch swing and watch while they explore their little corner of East Village.

The porch swing was one of the first items installed when we bought our home. From the first time I saw our front porch, I had visions of sitting outside on balmy evenings, swinging slowly while sipping a lemonade and enjoying a good novel. We also put in a fan to add a pleasant breeze when the days and nights get muggy.

I also bought two rocking chairs from Cracker Barrel just in case guests drop by. One of the best things about front porches is that they attract friends and neighbors. I wanted to make sure that we have plenty of chairs to accommodate company.

Purchasing rocking chairs at Cracker Barrel is an interesting process. The closest Cracker Barrel advertises free delivery to Celebration, but I quickly learned that it was a false claim. After setting up two or three deliveries and having them be no-shows each time, I gave up and went to pick up the rockers. It was a Sunday morning, so the place was packed with dozens of people waiting for seating in the restaurant. Many of them were parked in the various rockers set up in front of the building. The salesperson simply chose two chairs in the style that I wanted, forcing two people to get up. The displaced occupants gave me the evil eye, but I didn't care; if they wanted to remain in my chairs any longer, they would have to pay me some rent.

Now my front porch is a nice little environment for relaxing and entertaining. I have my swing, my chairs, a flagpole, a colorful flowerpot, and various little knick knacks and decorations that rotate with the seasons. I can even work outside if I choose, since we have wireless DSL. But usually I confine work time to indoors and fun time to the great outdoors.

The other night was a good example of front porch sociality in action. I was outside with the cats, and my next door neighbor wandered out and headed over to say hello. A short time later, our neighbor from two doors down arrived home in her car. Spotting us, she joined our impromptu gathering. This was the perfect opportunity to try our my Magic Bullet, so I hurried inside to rustle up my infommercial contraption and some margarita mix. After all, what tastes better on a pleasant spring evening than a frozen margarita?

I love my Magic Bullet. If you're not an infomercial addict like I am, you may have no idea what I'm talking about. Basically, it's like a very versatile mini-blender. It makes anything from salsa and guacomole to chicken salad to smoothies and frozen drinks. You screw the blades into one of the plastic cups, pop it onto the power base, and chop and dice to your heart's content. Up until now, I've only used it for smoothies, iced coffee drinks, and frozen alcholic beverages. But even if I never use it to prepare actual food, it's well worth the price for the drinks alone.

Even though the paid commercials make it look appealing (don't they always?), I was leery of ordering a Magic Bullet. Sure, they always claim there is a money back guarantee, but they don't tell you that the shipping and handling charges are not refundable and that you'll pay another small fortune to send the darned thing back. Fortunately, I found the Magic Bullet at Target at a comparable price. I could purchase it with peace of mind, knowing that I could return it if it turned out to be a piece of junk. But I'm happy to say that so far it has lived up to all of the claims.

One of my neighbors was on an antibiotic, so she had to have a non-alcholic version. But myself and my other neighbor opted for full strength drinks. We must have been quite a sight, trying to drink without spilling the slushy liquid all over us. I had used the mugs that come with the Magic Bullet, but they aren't really geared for margaritas. You find yourself trying to coax some liquid from the frozen mass by tipping up your mug. Then suddenly a big hunk of slush comes barreling out at your face at freight train speed! By the time we had finished, all three of us had been liberally christened with our beverages.

By this time, dusk had descended on our peaceful little cul de sac. The bugs were busily trying to get a buzz by sucking our tequila-laden blood (well, at least two of us...the designated driver bugs were attacking the teetotaling member of our trio). We had doused ourselves with bug spray, but the mosquitos seemed to be immune. Finally, we retired to one of the neighbor's backyards. She has a lovely little patio with a fountain, flowers, and best of all, a huge arsenal of citronella candles and torches. She pulled out a packet of sweet smelling mini-cigars; I'm not a smoker myself, but the other two lit up. Normally, I don't like the odor of cigar smoke, but these smelled more like pipe tobacco. The aroma was rather pleasant, although most of it was blown away by the wind that had suddenly whipped up.

Even though I prefer front yards to back, I have to admit that my neighbor has a wonderful backyard location and set-up. The house next door to hers sits on a curve, so the yards border a large, grassy easement area. It's very open, and her yard is planted with rambling flowers and vines. In contrast, my backyard seems much smaller (even though it's the same size) because of the placement of the landscaping and its closer proximity to the house next door.

We relaxed and chatted as the sun faded completely from the sky. Suddenly, I realized that night had fallen and the clock had eased its way past nine o'clock. I still had some travel agent work to do, so reluctantly we broke up our little group and headed our separate ways.

This fun, impromptu gathering was a direct result of the "front porch effect." I'm sure that such gatherings happen all the time throughout Celebration. If you're a front porch fanatic, you probably know exactly what I mean. If not, give it a try some evening. You may be surprised (and pleased) at the results.

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com

Night Walk

Lately, I have gotten in the habit of taking a walk downtown at dusk to get an ice cream cone. I can justify my dessert treat a little more easily when I "walk it off." I'm sure that the 40-minute roundtrip hike doesn't even make a dent in the calories, but it's got to be better than driving.

Usually, I take the walking path that runs along the lake behind East Lawn, which links up with the Lake Evalyn path. By the time I get downtown and buy my frozen goodie, it's usually dark. Sometimes I take the same path back, but even though Celebration has a reputation as a "safe" town, it makes me a little nervous to walk through the woods alone. Thus, I often take a more populated route (usually Celebration Avenue to East Lawn) on the return trip.

Recently, I decided to take Celebration Avenue, but to go past East Lawn and take the short boardwalk a little farther up that cuts into East Village. It was a very pleasant evening, with a comfortable breeze that had chased away the afternoon mugginess, so I thought it would be nice to take a longer path.

As I approached the turnoff, I noticed a forest of flashing yellow lights up ahead. It appeared to be a number of emergency vehicles blocking off the road near the Spring Park townhomes and condos. Curiosity drew me down Celebration Avenue, as there is another boardwalk down the street from the townhomes that cuts into East Village. I could see what was happening and still take a shortcut home.

As I got closer, I noticed that the vehicles were fire engines. Whatever had happened was mostly over, and it hadn't been a false alarm. As I passed the row of townhomes, I noticed that the front doors of two were open, and the unmistakable smell of a fire's aftermath was drifting on the night breeze. I surpressed a shudder, as fire is my worst nightmare. I had a cousin who died in a blaze, and my brother's house burned very badly a few years back (fortunately, only one of his eight children was home at the time so no one was injured).

It still creeps me out that I came pretty close to having a house fire myself. Back in the days when my husband and I were still making the weekly commute between Chicago and Celebration, I noticed that our lights were constantly strobing. It wasn't just when the air conditioner kicked on. The lights pulsed continually as though keeping time to unheard music.

When I pointed this out to my husband, he said, "It's probably something that we'll just have to live with." Somehow, that didn't seem right; our house was brand new, and our utilities were underground. Surely the current should be steady and unwavering.

Since our house was still under warranty, I called the builder and an electrician was dispatched. He discovered that the neutral on the meters hadn't been connected properly. I'm not sure if that is an exact description, but I don't know anything about electrical systems so that's the closest I can remember. He warned us that it was very dangerous, and he immediately cut power to the entire triplex. We had to call the power company and wait, huddled in my next door neighbor's house, until they came out to take care of the problem.

The electrician said that we were very lucky to have avoided a fire. All three meters for the triplex are on our family room wall, so that's where the blaze would have started. Fortunately, at that time we were only in Celebration on weekends, and one of our other neighbors has a job that keeps her away from home for long stretches, so the electrical consumption wasn't high enough to heat up whatever part was screwed up.

As I passed the townhomes, I said a silent prayer that no one had been injured in the fire. (Later, I learned that it was a new resident who had just moved in; fortunately, he got out okay although there was a lot of damage.)

As I continued on my way, the smell of burning was still in my nostrils and I felt a sense of vague unease. I had been so dazzled by all the fire truck lights that I had missed my turnoff. Now, to get home, I had to walk almost to the entrance of Artisan Park. This gave me a lot more time to think and to observe houses that I didn't usually pass on foot.

I have walked down that block countless times during my morning sabbatical; in those early hours, the world seems bright and cheerful, optimistically preparing to embark on another day. At night, the same neighborhoods seem to take on a slightly ominious edge, even without the presence of emergency vehicles. With a fire added to the mix, an odd sense of melancholy was dogging my footsteps.

I cut through Roseville corner, on the edge of East Village. It's a nice little enclave of bungalows and duplexes/triplexes, and it always reminds me of the "early days" because that's where the triplex model was located. But now, many of the duplexes and triplexes have a dark and deserted look. I suspect that several were purchased as vacation homes, with owners who show up at vacation and holiday time. The rest of the year, they sit empty and silent. The porches are barren of any of the little touches that make a house a home, and the windows seem like dull, empty eye sockets staring out at the street.

Here and there, I spotted a place with pots of flowers or porch rockers or perhaps a litter of "child debris" (toys and bicycles). In some of the houses, the lights were on, and I could make out shadowy movement behind the blinds. Instead of that creepy deserted feeling, they gave off the comforting aura of occupied homes.

I have nothing against snowbirds and vacationers, as I know what it's like to be stuck in another state when your heart is in Florida. But I know that some residents don't like the idea of part-timers, and I can sympathize with their point of view. Perhaps my uneasiness was enhanced by passing the fire scene, but for some reason the empty homes were giving me a eerie, Twilight Zone feeling, like I was walking through a ghost town. It wasn't just the multi-family units; there were a lot of dark and empty-looking single family bungalows, too.

Even when we were commuters, I made sure that my home never looked deserted. The flag on my porch changed with the seasons, and there were always several lights shining in the windows. I had timers upstairs and downstairs, and I also alternated between leaving the foyer and kitchen lights on. Since real flowers would have withered in the heat without a daily dose of water, I relied on silk substitutes. My porch swing swung jauntily in the breeze, although I only left the cushions out when I was in town.

Since it was a weekend night, many of the residents might have been out, making the street seem more deserted than it really was. But it was odd to see so many homes without even the tiniest sliver of illumination. I am the power company's dream; even when I am gone for the evening, I leave at least one lamp on in the house, plus the porch lights and all of the lights in the back.

When I reached the next street, there was a greater number of homes with warm lamplight glowing in their windows. I felt a homey feeling as a noticed a crooked window blind here or an open picture window there, with signs of humanity inside. In one home, I could make out the bluish flicker of a television. In another, I could see the occupants sitting around a table in the front room, playing a game or perhaps diving in a late snack of pizza. Upstairs, in yet another house, I could see a head bobbing in front of a computer screen...someone working late, or perhaps just surfing the internet for fun. In the distance, a car pulled up to the curb, and its occupant dashed up a stairway and knocked jauntily on the door. Cheerful voices drifted on the breeze as someone greeted her and she disappeared inside.

All very mundane things, but together they are all threads that are woven together into the comfortable tapestry of everyday life. There is a story for each person at every window and doorway. Most of the stories are probably dull and commonplace...a group of friends getting together or a family gathered around a DVD, enjoying the weekend before Monday's reality intrudes with work and school. Some are more exciting, and even potentially dangerous or tragic, like the townhome occupants and neighbors who were huddled in worried little knots near the fire scene. The darkened homes undoubtedly have their tales, too, although Celebration is just one short chapter in their overall stories.

As I strolled along, with these thoughts drifting through my mind, I realized that I had finally reached my own street. In my comfy little corner of East Village, there are a few dark houses, but plenty of others with light-filled windows and other signs of life, like human movement, a distance lilt of voices, or the faint barking of a dog.

The porch lights of Duloc Manor blazed forth, and in the front room window, two furry feline faces peered out. One was hoping that I had arrived to take him for a night prowl on his leash, while the other had his sights set on his evening dinner; since he hasn't learned to open a can yet, he's dependent on human largess.

As I opened the front door and stepped back into my own dramatic comedy (or would that be comedic drama?), my melancholy mood lightened. It felt so good to be home, with the cats weaving around my legs and my husband shouting a greeting from his office upstairs, where he was pretending to work while secretly watching CSI DVDs out of the corner of his eye. No, we don't have a very exciting plot line in our household, but that's just fine with me.

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com

Endless Summer

One of the greatest things about Florida is that, in the immortal words of the Beach Boys, it features an "Endless Summer."

I guess I should qualify that by pointing out that it can get quite chilly in the Sunshine State if you're in the northern or central regions. This past winter in Celebration, we had some frost warnings and we had to use our heat pump several nights. But "cold" has a much different meaning here than it does in Illinois.

Floridians consider temperatures in the 30s and 40s to be almost arctic; in Chicago, we don't start worrying until the mercury dips into the single digits or dives below zero. I've lived through many bone-chilling, body-numbing days when the wind chills dipped to more than 30 degrees below zero. For the hearty souls who dared to venture outside, every breath burned like fire and any exposed flesh was instantly flash frozen. If your car wouldn't start, you could count on a wait of several hours if you happened to belong to a motor club; on days like that, their lines are jammed with calls as auto batteries give up the ghost by the thousands.

Then, of course, there's the snow. Usually, it's only a few inches at a time...just enough to mess up traffic and cause a few heart attacks among out-of-shape shovelers. But every now and then, Chicago gets dumped on by a blizzard of legendary proportions. I've lived through several of them, although I was too young to remember anything about my first monster snowstorm, which occured in 1967. The next one came along while I was in junior high; that winter, it was quite de rigour to wear a t-shirt proclaiming "I Survived the Chicago Blizzard of '79."

There have been many other blizzards of lesser might that have still managed to bring things to a standstill. A few years back, we had a doozy in March, just when we thought it was finally safe to start fantasizing about spring. At our condo, all twelve garages are situated in a row, in the same building. The snow drifts were so high that they reached more than a quarter of the way up the garage doors.

Back then, we still had some sociable neighbors; sadly, over the years, the original occupants moved out, and a less friendly (and sometimes downright surly) bunch moved in. But at the time of the March whiteout, we were all friendly enough to band together and dig out our garages as a group effort.

Actually, I shouldn't say "all," as there was one couple that never really meshed with the rest of us. They were a married team of lawyers, and I never understood why they chose a condo, as they seemed unhappy from day one. They had an enornmous chandelier in their entrance foyer, which might not seem odd unless you could see the condos. The units are quite nice, but the foyers are not conducive to huge, fancy lighting fixtures. For one thing, the ceiling is too low, and for another, it just didn't fit in with the 1990s can lighting schema.

They lived kitty corner from us, but I can count on one hand the number of times I ever saw them in the flesh. If you pulled up in the parking lot at the same time as they did, they would literally wait in their car until you went inside before emerging. At first, I thought I was imagining things, but my other neighbors confirmed it.

I did see (or rather, hear) their human side once, on the day of a Jimmy Buffet concert which happened to be held near our town. Apparently they had attended and had gotten more than a litter snockered. You could hear them fighting (at least, I think it was fighting) all the way up the stairs and out in the entrance hall before they finally staggered into the Chandelier Palace and slammed the door behind them.

But on the day of the blizzard, they were the only neighbors who were conspicuously absent from our shovel crew. They were definitely home, but they never came out to join us. And when we were done removing the snow, every garage door was cleared...except theirs. Finally, when the rest of us had all retired back into our respective condos, they emerged to do their solitary shoveling.

As you might imagine, they didn't live in their condo too long. Within a year, they had headed for a more suitable (or perhaps "snoot"able) environment. I can just imagine how traumatized they would be if they lived on my street in Celebration, where neighbors dropping by is the norm.

But in Celebration, we don't have to worry about blizzards, as long as you don't count the soapsuds on Market Street every Christmas season. And when you're from the Windy City, the 40s, and even the 30s, feels downright balmy in December, January, and February. What Floridians call "winter weather" is more like early spring to a northener.

In Chicago, by the time March would roll around, I would be practically climbing the walls from cabin fever. March and April were "teaser" months, interspersing a nice spring day here and there with weeks of nasty, gray residual winter. In late April, I would be chomping at the bit to fill my flower pots, but I knew there was always a chance that Jack Frost wasn't done with us yet. I could only really feel safe in mid-May, when spring was finally firmly entrenched.

In Celebration, I have been enjoying weeks and months of balmy weather already. At times, it's been a bit on the "cool," side, but that is defined as temperatures in the 60s. We've had the windows open since March, although now we're relying more and more frequently on the air conditioner. Those few-and-far-between spring days that I used to savor like rare truffles in Chicago are just a fact of life in Florida. As I head outside in shorts in March and April, feeling the sunshine caress my face and basking in the warm breeze, I wonder why everyone else in the United States hasn't moved to Paradise.

My spring flower garden has been in place for weeks, and I won't have to give it up in October. In Florida, I can switch to mums that will last well into the winter season, or at least until I switch over to poinsettias for Christmas.

I suppose I'll feel somewhat differently when I lose northern hardiness. Right now, I can still swim with freezing to death even when the temperatures are in the 70s. It really is an endless summer for me, at least where pools and water parks are concerned. But by next winter, I'll probably be shivering and reaching for my jacket with the rest of the Floridians as soon as it dips below 80.

Living in the Sunshine State is such a treat. I could never go back to the long, cold Midwest winters that feature a monotonous parade of gray, depressing days. I know there are some people who thrive on the cold and snow, but I'm not one of them. Make mine an Endless Summer!

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com

The Left Coast Comes to Florida

Recently, a bit of the Left Coast (a.k.a. California) opened at Epcot in Disney World. Although it's still officially in the "soft opening" stage, Soaring is running pretty steadily in the Land pavillion.

This new simulator attraction took over the space formerly occupied by "Food Rocks" (I'm sure that had its fans, but for me it's no big loss). The pavillion also houses the corny but ever-popular "Living With The Land" boat ride and the environmentally-correct Lion King-themed "Circle of Life" movie.

I enjoy both of those attractions, particularly the boat trip. After passing through the requisite Audioanimatronic scenes, you float through the experimental greenhouse, with its cool Mickey-shaped pumpkins, the fish farming tanks, and the hydroponic racks. For the insatiably curious, you can take a foot tour of those areas too (that is an extra-cost item, totally separate from the ride). The Lion King movie is cute, although it ends with a Disney optimism that is far removed from the reality of our polluted, globally warming world.

Even though we've lived in Celebration since January, I've only been to the theme parks a handful of times. My poor annual pass was actually getting dusty. But today I headed over to Epcot with a friend; although we were technically going for lunch, we left early so we'd have time to slip in a ride or two.

The park was amazingly crowded for a May morning; I think there was some sort of press event going on. Even though the big celebration this year is Disneyland's 50th Anniversary, the Mouse's synergy machine has made certain to include Florida in the crowd-generating hoopla.

Soaring has a singles line, but unfortunately it was closed. Oh well, that's what Fast Passes are for. For the uninitiated, I should probably explain: a Fast Pass is sort of like a "ride reservation." You can only hold one at a time, and once you use one, you can get another. You go to the ride you are interested in, insert your ticket, and it spits out a pass bearing your return time. That time can be anywhere from half an hour to several hours later (in the summer, Fast Passes for popular attractions often run out). When you come back at the appointed time, you enter through an "express" line, incurring the withering death-stares of the poor souls stuck in the Standby Line.

When we reached the Land pavillion, it was early enough to get Fast Passes for half an hour in the future. Unfortunately, even though my friend and I got passes one right after the others, hers was for the five-minute span after mine (11:10 and 11:15). Oh well, in the worst case scenario, I could simply use mine five minutes later, since you have an hour from your start time to use the pass.

We killed the time until our California adventure by doing the boat ride and wandering around the pavillion, marveling at the changes that were made in conjunction with the installation of the new ride. The most interesting change was the upgrade of the food court. I was drooling at several of the new offerings, including a roasted beet and goat cheese salad (I'm not much of a beet fan, but I'll eat just about anything if you smear enough goat cheese on it).

Eventually, the appointed time arrived, and we heading in to experience "Soaring." Actually, it was something of a deja vu experience for me, since I had seen the original at Disney's California (Mis)Adventure. Many people pan DCA, but personally I enjoyed it. Granted, it was more of an "adult" park, even more so than Epcot. In today's ADHD society, kids (and often parents) don't have the patience to watching tortillas and bread being made, especially since no one gets decapitated or blown up in the process.

Actually, two people used to get blown up in the movie about the history of California, but Disney apparently deemed that too depressing and removed the sequence. Now, it's just a 30 minute upbeat, educational film that probably has the kids fidgeting and kicking seats within the first five minutes. There was another non-Disney-like scene of a Chinese mail order bride getting pelted with tomatoes, but I'm not sure whether that one has managed to escape the cutting room of political correctness.

I'm sure that a lot of things have changed at DCA since I've been there, as I visited shortly after it opened. They did perform one mercy killing that made the world a much better place, by removing the tediously horrible dark ride known as "Superstar Limo." The hideous limo ride was a monument to Eisner Economics. All it basically consisted of was riding through several rooms of bad cutout scenery and spooky pseudo-celebrity likenesses. From what I've heard, I wasn't alone in my opinion, and that ride was euthanized quite rapidly.

Another really bizarre attraction that died a quick death was "Steps In Time," the original show in the Hyperion Theater (I think it houses an Aladdin show now). If you've ever seen the "Disney Dreams" show on Disney Cruise Line's ships, picture it being rewritten by people who have been dropping acid for 48 hous straight. It featured contemporary (but hideous) versions of Disney songs centered around a ridiculous plot about a "hip" fairy godmother who teaches two siblings about brotherly love. Although I'm not sure, I think that one might have closed even before "Superstar Limo" did.

But there were lots of good things too (the Paradise Pier section, featuring traditional amusement park ride ala-Coney Island, is a treat), and "Soaring" was among the DCA jewels. It is a simulator that aims to make you feel like you're hang gliding over California. The motion and visuals are enhanced by various smells, such as pine when you are over the forests and orange when you are over the citrus groves.

The Florida version is a clone of its Left Coast sibling, which I actually find to be a disapointment. What relevance does an arial tour of California have to do with the Sunshine State? Sure, the visuals are stunning, and this ride is definitely a repeater (unlike the abysmal current incarnation of "Journey Into Imagination," which I am forbidden to ride by my psychiatrist because it incites me to slit my wrists). But the fact that it is an identical transplant speaks of a larger issue: The creative drain at the Disney company. Instead of coming up with unique attractions for each park, their latest money-saving ploy is to recycle the same attractions in different locations.

Oh well, that's another whole issue, and it doesn't lessen the enjoyment of the overall "Soaring" experience. I am a big fan of "Test Track" (I do not do "Mission Space," as I've seen too many people toss their cookies while waiting at the exit for my husband), but "Soaring" is now my favorite ride at Epcot.

After our pseudo-hang gliding, my friend and I decided to head upstairs to check out the menu at the rotating restaurant (Garden Grill). Oddly, the escalators weren't working, so the six million people who were all apparently trying to get to a different floor at the same time were required to squeeze onto the narrow, static stairways. That's probably the only time in my life that I've ever waited in line to go upstairs. Unfortunately, someone in close proximity had apparently unleased a "Silent But Deadly." The odor of organic intestinal gas quickly spread and destroyed the nasal linings of everyone within 20 feet. I wanted to run for the hills, but since I was in a cattle-car situation, I could only pass out from the stench in silence. Fortunately, the momentum of the crowd kept my prone body upright and moving in the correct direction.

We ended up having a nice lunch at England (fish & chips and vegetable curry) before heading back to Celebration. Taking a morning off means that I'll be putting in extra work hours this weekend, but it was well worth the penalty. At least my annual pass isn't dusty anymore, and I'm not going to let it get a new coat before I go to the theme parks again.

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com

Revenge of the Wildlife

Anyone who has ever seen the hokey 1970s eco-thriller "Frogs" knows that ticking off the local wildlife can be a bad idea. In this 1972 schlock-fest starring Sam Elliot, Joan Van Ark, and Ray Milland, the local frogs (and spiders and assorted reptiles) get ticked off when a cantankerous old millionaire pollutes their environment on his private Florida swampland island. They take their revenge via some of the campiest deaths posible (for example, killing a woman by locking her in a greenhouse and knocking down a bottle that emits poisonous fumes...pretty smart critters!). I was eight years old when I saw this movie and suitably creeped out, especially since I am frightened by big, hairy spiders. Now that I am older and wiser, I enjoy it when it comes on cable in an Ed Wood-Grade Z-So Bad That It's Good kind of way.

I live at peace with the various frogs and lizards that abound in the environs of Duloc Manor. I even go so far as to rescue any reptiles or amphibians that manage to make it inside the house, releasing them outside before the felines can turn them into fresh kill. Thus, unlike the movie cast, I've had no fatal critter encounters.

The scaled creatures in our neighborhood might be peaceful, but the avians are another story. We have a lovely red cardinal that pays us a visit every day. But he's a smart little birdie, and his absolute favorite sport is torturing Stitch and Farquuad. At first, I thought it was coincidence, but now it happens so regularly that I know the bird is doing it on purpose. He perches on my porch swing, which is strategically placed in front of the formal room window, where we have a cat perch. As soon as the felines notice him, they crowd onto the perch and make all sorts of threatening machine-gun noises. Mr. Cardinal then proceeds to hop back and forth from the swing cushion to the chain, just a few tantilizing inches from their reach, making his distinctive chirp all the while. Translated, I'm sure it means, "Nyah Nyah Na Nyha Nyah! You can't get me!" He knows full well that he's protected by a solid glass pane.

He paid a visit the other morning, so I dragged my husband downstairs with his digital camera. Up until now, he probably thought I was crazy when I tried to convince him the cats were being heckled by a bird on a daily basis. Sure enough, he had to admit that it's true. The cardinal was doing his cushion to chain dance, chattering and cussing at the cats continuously. Their noses were pressed against the glass, and their eyes had a murderous gleam, but of course they were helpless.

We managed to get several shots of our little birdy visitor, which you can see below. I'm not quite sure why he chose our porch or how he knows that he's safe. All I know is that it's very amusing to watch him in action.











Even with free-roaming cats, the birds can be quite aggressive. Our next-door neighbors let their cat out, and there is a small, dark brown bird that must have a nest in the vicinity of the alley. Whenever she sees the cat, she chatters up a storm while she perches on a garage rooftop. One day my neighbor was sitting in her backyard, and her cat was lying in the driveway. The bird actually flew down and divebombed the cat, trying to peck it!

I suppose that the aggressiveness and ingenuity of birds shouldn't surprise me. I have a cocketiel, Bradley, that has lived in a household of felines for 10 years; we're on our second set of cats since he joined us. When the first two cats were young enough to be mobile, Bradley kept a cautious distance. He is loose whenever we are home, but he would normally stay in the "safe zone" on the top of his cage or perch near me on the couch for protection.

But the cats were getting older, and eventually they turned sickly and weak while he was still young and agile. He would wait until they went to their water bowl, then fly down and start goosing them and pecking their butts. He would drive them away, and then proceed to take a bath in their water! My hsband was the first one to witness this, and I thought he was crazy until it finally happened in front of me.

Those two kitties eventually went to Feline Heaven, and now we have our younger and stronger duo (plus Tooncinator, who doesn't really count since he spends all his time under the bad upstairs, listening to the voices in his head and trying to savage anyone who comes near him). Now, Bradley exercises extreme caution. He will dive bomb them and walk up to peck them, but only when I am nearby to referee.

I do have a theory as to why Mr. Cardinal likes to hang around our front porch. In a bush just around the corner, I discovered a nest being tended by what I suspect might be Mrs. Cardinal. Since females do not have the same brightly colored plummage as their male counterparts, and since I've only seen her little head poking up from the nest, I'm not sure of her species. I don't want to get too close and disturb her by trying to take a better look. But she obviously has a clutch of eggs, so maybe her "husband" is distracting the cats so they don't realize that the rest of the family is close by.

I enjoy having avian families in my yard. Even when I lived in a condo three stories up, I would get an occasional mourning dove nest in my flower pots. Sometimes the eggs were duds, but twice we had little birdie families that were raised right outside the patio windows.

I'm glad to see all the birds; during the first year after our house was completed, when there was still a lot of construction in the area, it was rare to see any avians. There were plenty in the preserve areas, but not around the residences. My neighbor put out a feeder, and it was untouched for months. But now the homes and condos in our immediate vicinity are done, so the birds have apparently deemed that it's safe to return. I'm glad; I missed my Chicago mourning doves, but now it looks like the cardinal clan will keep the cats amused and give me my fill of fine feathered friends.

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com

The Squatter

We have a squatter at Duloc Manor. He's a sneaky little devil; at first, I wasn't even sure that he existed. Then, even when his existence was confirmed, it took a while to spot him in the flesh. He left evidence of his comings and goings, but somehow he always managed to be absent whenever I was present, sort of like how Snufalufugus would always disappear when Big Bird's friends were around. But now I've finally "met" him, and it looks like I'll be stuck with him for quite a while.

It all started a couple of months ago, when I noticed a hole below our electric meters and telecommunications boxes. On our side wall, we have the boxes and wiring for all three units in our triplex. It's always been rather messy back there, so I figured that the hole was just a leftover from a workman's visit. I filled it in, covered it nicely with mulch, and didn't think any more about it.

A couple of weeks later, my husband announced, "The hole's back!" Apparently something was living, or at least spending a lot of time, on the side of our home. I inspected the hole and pondered what to do. I am a neophyte when it comes to Florida wildlife, so I had no idea what might be inhabiting the underground den. I am an animal lover, so I didn't what to hurt whatever it was. But I also didn't relish the idea of something living against our foundation, in close proximity to the utility boxes.

Finally I decided to flood the hole and see if anything came out. I got the hose and turned it on full blast, prepared to scoot if something angry came charging at me. But no wet critter showed up, even after I had filled it all the way to the top. Apparently the squatter wasn't at home.

After a couple of days with no signs of life in the area, I refilled the hole once again. I also put a posting on the Front Porch (our community intranet) to see if anyone could hazard a guess on the species of Duloc Manor's uninvited guest. The consensus was an armadillo; I had seen a few of the critters while driving or biking around town, but I never realized that they were such expert diggers or that one might choose my yard as its home base.

We have a long-time resident in town who is also a member of that rare species Floridus Nativa, or Actual Native Floridian. Florida is a state of immigrants, both domestic and foreign. You'll find people from across the United States, and also around the world, but those who were born and bred in the Sunshine State are rare. I know so many people from Chicago that I have lost count, but I can tally the number of native Floridians who I know personally on one hand.

This Floridian neighbor is also the local unofficial fishing and wildlife expert. He offered to check out the hole to confirm that an armadillo was, indeed, the culprit. I was hoping that it might not come back since the flood and the latest hole-filling, but of course that wasn't the case. Within 48 hours the hole was back, right in its usual spot, so I called for identification assistance. Whatever the critter might be, it was either very stubborn, very habitual, or a big fan of Duloc Manor's yard.

The local expert came out assess the situation. He stuck his hand in the hole to check its depth (he's got a lot of guts) and pointed out that it wasn't very deep, so it probably wasn't a den. He said that our visitor was an armadillo, but that it wasn't actually living there. Our squatter was just a frequent visitor; he must have found something tasty or appealing in that spot at one time, and now he was regularly seeking out a repeat.

The suggested remedy was cayenne pepper. Apparently, if you spread it in the armadillo's favored spots, it will get a snoutful while it's rooting around and decide to dig in a more hospitable environment.

I'm sure that Floridians get a real kick of the transplanted Northerners who are baffled by the flora and fauna of their adopted state. Armadillos in Florida are a fact of life, but it's a whole new experience for me. In Chicago, we did have an occasional possum or raccoon, but that was a rarity. There were lots of deer and coyotes in the forest preserves, but bothing around our condo other than the occasional lost dog or stray cat. For a long time, I never even knew that armadillos were native to the Sunshine State; I thought that they only lived out west.

It's good to have helpful people in town to calm the fears of the uninitiated. The same neighbor who checked out my critter situation has also assisted many people in Celebration with snake removal. Personally, I'm not afraid of snakes, as I've had many friends with pet boa constrictors and the like, so I've had many opportunities to get acquainted with them. However, they tend to panic a lot of people, especially in areas where there are some poisonous species. Even though they don't frighten me, I give snakes in the wild a healthy amount of respect.

Fortunately, the vast majority of the slithering reptiles that you'll encounter in Florida are harmless, but they can give quite a fright to those who aren't used to them. Often, panicky people will kill the snake first and ask questions later, which is not a wise move because snakes are very beneficial to the ecological system. Thus, our resident unofficial snake expert has rescued many startled serpents from the garages of equally startled people.

But my situation involved a critter of the four-legged variety, and I was glad to have that confirmed. I was hoping it wouldn't return before I had a chance to pick up the cayenne pepper; little did I know that I'd soon be meeting Mr. Dillo face to face.

The very next day, my next-door neighbors invited me over for burgers. Never one to turn down food on the grill, I accepted. I even volunteered to provide the meat, since I had some Vidalia onion burger patties in the freezer. My husband and I like to keep them on hand for a quick meal when we feel like grilling or when company unexpectedly turns up. The onions give them an extra bit of flavor. We saw them once at Publix and were intrigued; now, they are a quick-meal staple in our household. Even if we don't feel like hauling out the grill, they cook up very nicely on my little George Foreman contraption.

I transferred the house phone to my cell phone, since my husband was flying in from Chicago that evening. It was just about the time that he should be calling to let me know if his flight was leaving on time or if he was embroiled in one of O'Hare Airport's infamous delays. We had finished our dinner and were just settling in to enjoy a cup of coffee when "Under the Sea" starting playing in my pocket. I dug out the cell phone, figuring that it was my hubby. Nope, it was my next-door neighbor on the other side, calling to alert me that Mr. Dillo was making an appearance. Her husband had seen the bold little critter amble across the street and make a beeline for my yard.

We all rushed out, coffee forgotten in the excitement of seeing the little culprit in the flesh. There he was, heading along the side of my house, intent on hunting up some dinner by pushing aside the mulch with snout. He didn't pause to dig under the meter; instead, he continued on to the back yard, where he poked around in the grass, totally oblivious to his awestruck audience. Here he is in the flesh:









I've seen a few aramdillos around town, but I'd never been so close to one. I thought he would run if we approached him, but he appeared to ignore us (I later learned from our knowledgeable neighbor that they have terrible eyesight, so he probably didn't even realize we were there). We weren't sure quite what to do, but we thought that perhaps we could round up the little fellow into my cat cage and relocate him to a less-populated area.

I went into the garage to get the cage; it was the same one in which we'd transported our kitty trio to Florida. It folds up nicely for storage, but that also meant that I needed to unfold it. In my haste to get it ready before the armadillo left, I was all thumbs. Meanwhile, my neighbor had gone into his garage to find some sort of dillo herding implement. He emerged with a hoe, brandishing the handle end, just as I finally figured out how to get the cage into some sort of animal-containing shape.

I set up the cage in a strategic spot, and we all got into strategic positions to urge Mr. Dillo to run into it if he decided to bolt. Little did we know that when aramdillos feel threatened, they don't run...they dig. And they do it fast and deep. The moment he felt the hoe handle prodding him, our quarry retreated under the hedges and began digging for China, showering us with a hail of dirt. The more we tried to urge him out, the more he dug into his comfy little trench. We must have looked like the stars of a new Three Stooges episode: "The Stooges Go Aramdillo Hunting."


Here is a photo of the armadillo butt sticking out of his newly-dug den:



Finally, I decided to call the native Floridian to see if he had any advice. If we kept up the way we were going, the critter would surely dig to the core of the earth before nightfall. We didn't want to hurt it, so we were totally at a loss. Good thing I called, as I learned that the dillo was likely to give him a taste of his sharp front claws if we annoyed him too much. After seeing how quickly he can dig, I didn't doubt their destructive power. Good thing our dillo was a tolerant creature that suffered our inept proddings without resorting to violence.

I was also warned that unless we took him far, far away, he was likely to return, so the best course of action was to modify his nightly prowl through the liberal use of cayenne pepper. That sounded good to me, as I was rapidly learning firsthand that herding aramdillos is only slightly easier than herding cats. I was definitely ready to throw in the towel.

I went back into the yard to let my neighbors know that the hunt was off. We put away our various implements, but the poor little aramdillo had decided that we were all crazy, and he stayed frozen in his new den even after we left the yard. I had gone inside to get a camera, hoping to get a photo of the squatter, but he apparently wasn't planning to emerge any time soon. Really, I can't blame him. If a trio of crazed humans started prodding me with a stick, I wouldn't be too quick to show myself either.

I waited a little while, but he was as still as a statue. Finally I went inside to do some housecleaning, figuring that he might emerge around dusk. Sure enough, by the time I was done with vaccuming and litterbox duty, he had started cautiously testing the waters. I crept out with the camera and watched his protuding tail, which was moving ever so slightly like a barometer testing the wind. Then, cautiously, he backed out of the hedgerow and looked around. I must not have registered in his fuzzy vision, as he finally emerged all the way. I got a couple of quick photos before he decided to slip back into the hole. He came out, went in, and came out several times...he must have been testing the waters to make sure the crazy humans were gone, much like a Western sheriff poking his hat on a stick in the old movies.

Eventually he realized that it was safe, so he resumed his interrupted rounds. He had a grand old time rearranging the mulch in my backyard flower beds. He went all the way around the yard; my cat, Stitch, watching from the window, was going absolutely crazy. Then he slipped out of the yard and reversed his path to waddle along my house again, using his snout as a mulch "snowplow" as he went. I now knew for certain what had been creating the alien crop circle-type patterns in my flower beds.

Having a human trail him didn't seem to bother him at all. He wandered through my front yard and across the next door neighbor's, but for some reason their yard didn't seem to interest him. He was very interested in the next house, though; when I left him, he was rooting busily in their flower bed and bushes. My next door neighbor doesn't have any flowers; it's the decorative blooms that seem to attract him. Whatever bugs or grubs he likes to eat must be attracted to flowers rather than shrub beds.

I'm sure that when he was done, the dillo continued back the way he had come and disappeared into the wetlands. There is a preserve area behind the houses across the street from us, so I suspect he has a cozy little home back there.

I was glad that I finally got to see my little squatter in the flesh. I'll admit that he was a cute little devil, with his armored body, pointy snout, beady eyes, and floppy ears. He certainly seems to have his evening routine down pat, so hopefully a liberal sprinkling of cayenne pepper will convince him to detour around Duloc Manor. But as my husband pointed out, the aramdillos were here long before we were. If the dillo can't be dissuaded, we'll just have to learn to live with him. Judging by his nonchalant attitude towards humans, even when we were making our inept attempts to contain him, he's already learned to live with us.

Learn more about Celebration on my website: www.celebrationinfo.com