The Great American Pie Festival Revisited

Every April in Celebration, if you head dowtown on the right weekend, you'll find people staggering around in the throes of sugar intoxication. If you crane your ear, you'll be able to interpret their pained mumblings: "No more pie...please, no more pie!" But there is no escape for the weary...the creamy and crusty delights surround them on every side. Once you have entered the Endless Pie Buffet, a highlight of the annual Great American Pie Festival, you won't be allowed to leave until you have gone up at least one pants size and/or until your blood sugar level meets diabetic standards.

Last year, I volunteered at the buffet, handing out baked goods to hungry fest-goers (and imbibing in no small quantity myself). This year was a little different, as I worked at the hotel where the Crisco National Pie Championship competition was being held.

On the Celebration end of things, besides the Coneheads-style consumption of mass quantities, there is also entertainment such as pie juggling, games and crafts for the kids, and of course a pie eating contest. But things are much more serious on the competitive end...amateurs and pros alike vie for monetary prizes, prestige, and an appearance on the Food Network.

The compeitive categories are intriguing; they run the gamut from mundane (e.g. apple, cream, fruit/berry) to the more intriguing and creative (holiday, Splenda, and "open," i.e. let your imagination run wild).

My volunteer duties put me in the thick of all those pies...literally. I reported for duty at the Sheraton Safari hotel and was assigned to serve as one of six pie cutters. This meant that I hovered at my station, equipped with a cutting board, knife, pie serving spatula, pitcher of hot water to rinse the implements, and paper towls for between-pie wipedowns. Volunteers working the judges' tables would plop down a pie, which I did my best not to mangle and massacre as I hacked out a hunk.

Since the table-workers would bring their pie to any available cutter, I ended up chopping through every category, from firm, lovely, easy-to-cut creations to sloppy, disintegrating tins of pudding and Cool Whip that melted into soupy masses on sight.

At first, I was terrified. I've never ranked high on the manual dexterity scale, and adding a sharp implement into the mix seemed like a recipe for disaster. Would my pies look like they had been cut with all the finesse of a lobotomized surgeon on crack? Would I be the only volunteer ever fired at the Pie Fest? I gulped down my paranoia and plunged into my work.

Thankfully, while I doubt that I'll win any awards for pie-cutting prowess, I managed to do a halfway decent job. Soon, I could tell by sight whether a pie would be a pleasure to cut or whether it was likely to collapse into a crusty heap at the first touch of my blade. The absolute worst was a chocolate cream creation that literally melted into soup the moment it was cut. A close second on the challenge scale were the pies that had been over-baked, melding their crusts to the bottom of the pan as though they had been secured with Super Glue.

Pumpkin and sweet potato weren't too bad, nor were most of the traditional fruit varities. Cream pies were sometimes iffy, although generally not too bad. The pecan pies could be a challenge, and the fruity works of art (usually strawberry) with mounds of berries piled on top were usually a nightmare. No matter how carefully you tried to carve them, there was always an inevitable avalance of fruit.

Some of the pies were such breathtaking works of art that it seemed almost criminal to cut them. They were festooned with everything from candy pirate coins to chocolate and nut mice (on a mousse pie, course). The talent and imagination was amazing.

I was happy that I'd chosen to work "behind the scenes," as working a table required mental abilities that are well beyond my bushed brain on a typical weekend morning. You had to find specific pies on racks and in coolers, keep track of numbers, put the pies back in their original spot after judging, collect score cards, etc...ugh! I enjoyed my mindless route of hack, rinse/wipe, hack, rinse/wipe, hack, rinse/wipe, and so on....

At some point, we started cutting small pieces of the most appealing creations after they were judged and passing them among the cutters and the table workers. I sampled a small bite of everything from apple (LOTS of apple) to berry to key lime to pumpkin. My personal favorites were a sweet potato pie topped with toasted marshmallows and a berry/rhubard mix (I am a rhubarb fanatic). But alas, there was no "Volunteers' Choice" category, so their creators will go unrewarded unless they capture official titles.

The judges were an eclectic mix...everything from professional chefs and food critics to Miss Michigan Apple (I'm probably massacring her title, but her crown was impressive). Their tables were equipped with water and oyster crackers for between-pie palate cleansing as they imbibed in a continuous flow of crusty creations. By the end of the day, they were surely on a sugar high that would still have them bouncing off the walls come midnight.

As a volunteer, you receive a free ticket to the Endless Pie Buffet back in Celebration, but by the time my shift was over, I never wanted to see another pie for another year. In a way, it had been better than the buffet, where virtually all of the booths hand out full-sized slices. I prefer to sample tiny bites because then my stamina lasts much longer and I experience a wider variety of tastes. Also, at the buffet, you don't get to experience desserts with monikers like "Coco-Nutty Citrus Pirates Dream Treasure" or "Chunky Monkey Swinging Jungle Jam."

Now, pie fest is almost over for another year (it wraps up tomorrow), but I don't think I'll come down from my sugar buzz till then anyway. And if I want to reprise my memories, I'll pay a visit to Perkins and then tune in to the Food Network in November, when it will be televised, while grasping a glob of French Silk in one hand, pumpkin in the other, and apple crumble at the side in my own simulation of the Endless Pie Buffet.

Visit my Celebration, FL website: http://www.celebrationinfo.com/

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The Writing Nomads of Celebation

I know it probably sounds unbelievable, but I have a love of writing. One of my earliest memories is wandering through the basement of our cookie-cutter Chicago bungalow, telling myself detailed stories starring our cat, Fluffy. My imagination had transformed him into Super Fluffy, a fearless feline superhero. I was probably all of three at the time, since poor Fluffy disappeared by the time I turned four...most likely a road-pizza-ed victim of the crazed Chicago drivers.

I had a set of old-fashioned wooden blocks, and in my mind they transformed into a cast of colorful characters. The yellow triangles were birds, the rectangles with a half-moon cut out were horses. The rounded "sticks" were cats. The rest of the pieces were used to construct elaborate settings for long, rambling tales that I acted out on the living room carpet. Anyone viewing the jumble would have seen precarious and disorderly block stacks; in my mind, they were far-away kingdoms full of dazzling adventure. The plots are lost to antiquity, as I was much too young to be able to write them down.

As I grew older, I realized that people could actually get paid to write. While most little girls played with Barbies and Easy Bake Ovens, I pecked away on a second-hand typewriter, spinning long, fantastic yarns about cats and horses (the birds were dropped from the cast when I switched mediums from blocks to ink).

I sold my first newspaper article while still in high school, and soon I was selling a steady string of horse training pieces to "Horse Illustated" (a journalistic sibling of "Cat Fancy" and "Dog Fancy") and other equestrian publications. I did some news stringing for a Chicago daily, too, and became a reporter, columnist, and eventually editor of a bi-monthly community newspaper.

I put my freelancing on hold when I got a job in corporate communications. That morphed into a career in training and development, and my writing got shoved off to simmer on the back burner. Still, I knew that someday it would return to a place of prominence in my life. The well of words never went dry in my brain; it simply had no spigot for the past decade, but now I was ready to tap in again.

Coincidentally, a fellow Celebration resident decided to start a writers' group. I joined in, figuring that a structured focus on writing would help me gingerly dip my toes back into the stream of creativity. I had some ideas for the horse magazines, so I thought that the club would be a great way for me to make a commitment to complete and submit some articles.

The club has been going strong for two months now, albeit with an interesting challenge. Much like the wandering tribes of Israel, the Celebration Creative Writers' Club wanders the "desert" of our fair town in search of a permanent Promised Land.

We started off at one of the two coffee shops for our first meeting, then tried out the second one for a comparison. While they both offered comfortable quarters, it was hard to read out loud with the constant flow of traffic. Thankfully, we all write in relatively benign genres, but I can just imagine the reaction of the caffeine-seekers in anyone had specialized in something like erotic fiction: "He tore the bodice from her heaving, sweat beaded bosom, cupping the buttery buds in his hands and burying his face in their fullness...." (You get the idea.)

Next up, we met twice in the local bookstore. It worked out well, although we were still reading out loud in public (there was less foot traffic than the coffee shops). But during the second meeting, Mr. and Mrs. Beezlebub came in with their brood of satanic spawn, who proceeded to create aural mayhem for the next half hour. With our ears ringing, we agreed that we'd look for quieter, more private quarters next time.

This Wednesday, our meeting was slated for the Celebration Foundation office. They make it available for community groups, and since it was in the evening, we'd be the only ones there. I met up with a fellow member and we headed off to building by Seito (the Japanese restaurant on Front Street) where both of us believed the Foundation was located. The first scary sign was that the door was locked...hmmmmmmm. The second ominous indication was that the name "Celebration Foundation" had been scratched off the signplate. Apparently the Foundation is just as nomadic as the Celebration Creative Writers.

My friend dialed the Foundation phone number, hoping that they might have a recording with their address. No dice. We walked down to Town Hall, thinking perhaps someone might be around to direct us to the proper location. No dice there, either, but a quick phone call to my husband revealed that the new location was on Sycamore Street. My cell phone lost signal before he could give me the address, but Sycamore was right around the corner. Sure enough, as we rounded the bend, the other members of the group were waiting in the doorway.

We managed to have our meeting, but the leader of our group said that getting the key had been a marathon process. Thus it looks like our traveling gypsy band will be moving on to a new location two weeks hence.

Oh well, writers are adaptable people. It doesn't matter where we meet, as long as we get together somewhere. The group has been very rewarding for me; since we started, I've actually sent out my first query letter in a decade and a half and got an article assignment out of it. But the nice thing about our group is that it is made up of people with all sorts of ambitions, from writing for fun to commercial sales, in a wide variety of genres from mystery to horror to general fiction and, of course, non-fiction. At the meetings, we each share a tip and then read a sample of our writing (new or old) for the rest of the group to critique. It's a fun and supportive atmosphere,

If you live in Celebration (or the surrounding environs) and want to join, we'd be glad to have you as everyone is welcome! Just one little challenge...I can tell you when but not where. Oh well, by this time next week I'm confident that the Writing Nomads will know their next "campsite" and the creativity will continue, no matter where we rest our rumps.

Don't Pee in the Palmettos

There are many wise adages regarding the topic of tinkling. For example:

-Don't whiz on the electric fence

-Don't eat yellow snow

This weekend, I learned another one quite personally and graphically:

-Don't pee in the palmettos

It all started at the Lake Louisa State Park Trail Obstacle Challenge. This bi-annual event consists of ten items to be negotiated by horse and human. They change from year to year; the current course included (in no particular order):

-A pinwheel of railroad ties to step over

-Poles with tennis balls on top, to be woven through without touching a pole

-A tipping teeter-totter to ride over

-Logs to ride over and a ribbon to tie onto a tree

-Barrels to back up between

-A mattress to ride over

-A giant puddle to ride through

-A rope gate to open, ride through, and close

-Giant timbers forming a "bridge" to ride over

-Hanging pool noodles to ride through

Below are photos of Figment and I negotiating the poles and the tree-tie:

Even though Figgie and I ride through the state park nearly every day, I had no idea how he'd react to the various foreign objects that had suddenly invaded his tranquil territory. Last year, I had planned to ride in the October challenge, but Figgie colicked the morning of the event. For those not familiar with equine illness, that means a massive horsey bellyache. In the worst case scenario, it can be fatal so it's nothing to play around with. Fortunately, a dose of Banamine brought him back around, but it was too late to go on the ride.

But the day before the October event, we had moseyed out on the trails for a sneak preview. You can't ride on the obstacles beforehand, but you can take a look at them. Figment didn't give a hoot about the obstacles themselves; no, my big, brave trail horse had melted down at the white plastic chairs that were placed out for the judges! I had to dismount and lead him gingerly to the Seats of Certain Horsey Doom. I sat in one of the chairs, flailed my arms all over it, and even picked it up. Eventually, he realized that it wasn't ripping me from limb to limb, so perhaps it was also safe for apoplectic Appaloosas to approach.

This year, I hoped he'd remember the benign nature of the chairs so he could concentrate on the real obstacles. Actually, the thing that worried me the most was how he would react to the sudden appearance of dozens of trailers, campers, and tents, as well as a hundred strange horses, in the normally tranquil environs of Lake Louisa. Fortunately, I was riding with the barn owner and her unflappable old mare, Queenie. I was hoping that Queenie's calmness would rub off on my excitable young Appy.

I had bathed Figgie the day before with his special fru-fru shampoo; it's a pink concoction called Pampered Pony or some-such silly moniker. Supposedly it's watermelon scented, but the aroma is no match for those old barnyard standards: Sweaty Horse and Eau de Manure. Still, when I was done, his white rump glowed like a big, hairy beacon of equine good grooming. I brushed his mane and tail into a flaxen shine and crossed my fingers, hoping that he wouldn't roll in the muck the moment I set him loose.

By the next morning he had, indeed, rolled, but thankfully the damage wasn't too God-awful. I arrived at the barn early to brush him out; one of our riding group had checked us in already, so we were slated to start the course at 10:45.

Lake Louisa State Park is right across the street from the boarding barn. Figgie approached non-chalantly, still blissfully unaware of the amazing transformation looming just ahead. Suddenly he stopped dead and his eyes bulged as big as two liquid brown balloons. There were tons of trailers and tents! A verticable covey of campers! Hordes and hordes of humans! And, most exciting of all, a huge herd of horses!

Queenie glanced over at him as if to say, "What's wrong with you?" Feeding off her indifference, Figment decided that perhaps it was safe to do some exploring. His ears were forward and his nostrils were flared as we negotiated the crowd, but fortunately he refrained from flipping into a meltdown.

We met the rest of our group, and at 10:45 we set off on the six-mile course. Figment was a little confused at the way in which the trails had been transformed. Soon, however, he was acting like an old pro. Usually he likes to hang behind, but midway through the course he decided that he didn't mind being the leader. His ears were pricked forward in full equine radar mode as he eagerly scouted out each obstacle.

The only one he refused was the innocuous-seeming rope gate. To human eyes, it was simple: Unlatch the rope from one of the poles, ride between them, and relatch it. But in horsey perception, a thick, orange rope bears way too much resemblance to a commonly-used type of electrified fence tape. Figment couldn't figure out why I wanted to maneuver him so close to the Danger Zone. For 90 seconds (the time limit), I tried in vain to convince him that it was safe, while he was apparently equally devoted to protecting me from a shock.

Oh well, nine out of ten wasn't bad, considering that it was our first-ever try. I was especially pleased that Figgie backed up between the barrels; that was the one obstacle that I was firmly convinced we'd blow. Queenie, the barn owner's horse, did so well that she won third place.

But even though the obstacles went smoothly, I ended up making my own adventure. Halfway through the course, I realized that I had to pee. I mean, I really, really had to pee; there was no way I'd make it through five more obstacles without soaking my saddle. But I didn't relish the thought of bluntly announcing my base bodily need to the rest of the group.

Fortunately, as we approached the next challenge (riding your horse over a mattress), I noticed that there was a horse trough and bottled water just beyond. I figured I could do the obstacle first, then rush over to the rest area, pee in the surrounding screen of palmettos, and be done by the time the rest of the group arrived. We'd all be dismounting anyway to get a bottle of water, so I wouldn't be holding them up. With any luck, they might not even realize that I'd been off tinkling among the trees.

Figgie gingerly bounced across the mattress, and I rushed around the corner to complete my dirty deed. I tied him to a tree, then slipped off to pee in the privacy of the palmetto screen. Unfortunately, I didn't factor in two important items: 1) Saw palmettos got their name for a reason; their leaves are as sharp as a freakin' Ginsu knife; and 2) To a horse, the loud rustle of palmetto leaves translates to vicious wild animal approaching...run!

Apparently, when I disappeared among the loud and all-engulfing shrubbery, Figgie decided that I had been devoured by some stealthy and ravenous creature. The continued rustling convinced him that it was coming for him next. He promptly broke loose and galloped off to the safety of the herd, still gathered at the obstacle.

All eyes were on the palmetto privy as I emerged. So much for a private pee! Now, not only my group knew, but also the judges at the obstacle. I confessed my dirty deed to the group as I reclaimed my horse. Worse yet, the reins had broken, so I had to tie them on precariously to make it through the rest of the ride. After remounting, I noticed that the leaves had sliced my finger as neatly as a knife blade, and it was now dripping with blood. Later in the day, I found a long, gory gash on my leg, too.

The rest of the ride went without incident, other than Figgie keeping a nervous eye on the palmettos that line the trail. My bladder was relieved, but at quite an embarrassing price. I'm already planning to ride in the October trail challenge, but you can rest assured: If I need to tinkle on the trail, it will not be in a palmetto patch!

Rap Cat Gets a Bad Rap

Let me preface this blog entry by saying that I am against animal abuse in any way, shape, or form. All three of my cats have a traumatic backstory (and Tooncinator alone proves my devotion to my pets...being feral, he has bit me to the bone at least twice, but we still let him live his Howard Hughes-like existence hiding under the bed 90% of the time counting toenail clippings). I am paying the board on a 30-year-old retired horse because I believe that animals are a lifetime commitment. My bird, Bradley, roams the house wild and free because I believe that caging 100 percent of the time is cruel.

But with all that being said, I just couldn't get myself fired up about allegations from Hillsborough Animal Services that the Rap Cat cat-in-a-bag promotion is cruel and a potential felony.

Yes, those yahoos actually believe that putting a paper sack on your cat is a felony! So do people who force Fifi into one of those lame pink doggie ballet outfits get the death penalty in Hillsborough?

Basically, what Checkers/Rallys is doing is printing a Rap Cat jersey on their bags, with instructions on how to cloth your kitty. Then, you take a photo or video and send it to them for possible inclusion on their website. Cute idea, right? I mean, cats crawl into bags on their own all the time, and if they get pissed at the prospect, the flimsy paper "jersey" is going to rip.

But the publicity-hungry folks in Hillsborough apparently crafted a press release that piqued a lot of interest among a media tired of the ongoing Anne Nicole circus of the bizarre. Click here to read the story in a new window; the video coverage was much more pathetic. It featured clips of pissed-off cats ripped off directly from YouTube. Pretty sad when the National Enquirer puts more effort into their research than Fox Orlando and its brethern.

We have wars, starvation, and poverty among humans, and cases of real animal cruelty where helpless critters are starved, beaten, dragged, shot, and God only knows what else. But in Hillsborough County, apparently their biggest cat-related worry is that some sick-minded felon to be will actually cloth Kitty in a paper sack. Appalling! Hang the bastard! And God forbid, don't force your cat into a flea bath or cram it into a carrier for a trip to the vet. If a Checkers bag is so abusive that it makes the national news, those things are probably grounds for an immediate lynching.

And what about me? Am I living on the edge of lawlessness with my own kitties? I most definitely would cram them (well, not Tooncinator) into Rap Cat costumes, save for one tiny detail: Checkers sacks don't come in Extra Portly Feline size.

The Return of Rap Cat

When you move 1200 miles from your original home state, there are many things to get used to: climate changes/weather differences, the absence or abundance of different plant, animal and insect life, driving laws, accents, and various forms of culture shock.

For me, some of the biggest were: learning to deal with sweet tea (pre-sweetened iced tea), which is a Southern staple but which I cannot stand; I receive it at restaurants roughly 50% of the time, even when I emphatically order unsweetened; preparing annually for hurricane season; becoming indifferent to the abundance of mini frogs and lizards (the true mark of a tourist is shouts of, "Oh look at those cute little things!!"; and learned to say, "We don't have roaches. Those are palmetto bugs."

But another big adjustment lies in new brand names and regional advertising. I have learned to accept Publix supermarkets and Race Trac gasoline, but I am still adjusting to some of the more unnerving examples. The worst is Appliance Direct, a local chain of appliance stores. They run both short and infomercial-length commercials which consist mostly of shouting their name while galavanting among a forest of fridges, stoves, washers, and the like.

I guess their advertising is effective in an annoying and brain-searing sort of way; we bought our washer and dryer there and were actually quite pleased with our experience. But still, their ads induce a primal survivial instinct in most Central Floridians; I, too, have learned to drown them out automatically.

It's not any worse here than in Chicago, where veterans of the late 70s/early 80s will surely remember Timmy of Long Chevrolet fame. This urchin newsboy from Hell heralded all their commercials with an annoying cry of, "Extra, Extra!" while wielding a shief of phone newspapers. Usually he yelled a headline like "Long Chevrolet announced big sale!" or some other such brainwashing drivel. He horrified an entire generation of Chicagoans until he finally got his comeuppance...one day the headline was "Kid gets pie in face," and the climax of the commercial was annoying little Timmy getting a big, creamy one in the puss.

Here in Florida, we're subjected to the likes of a bull terrier named "Mr. Incredible," advertising Toyotas (I think), but unlike Timmy, he just sits there quietly on the hood of a car while the huamns blather.

There is one regional ad that made the move to Celebration worth it all on its own: Rap Cat. Actually, the rapping feline isn't limited to Florida; he's featured on Checkers and Rally commercials, so you can see him in a variety of states. He burst onto the scene last fall, fascinating me with what was apparently a rap version of the Meow Mix catfood song. If you'd like to see what I'm talking about, click here to open Rap Cat's MySpace profile and view his commercial in a new window. Be patient, as the good part doesn't come till the end.

Rap Cat drives my husband insane, but to me he's one of those things that's so annoying that you just have to embrace it, sort of like those hamster-looking things that used to sing shrilly in praise of Quizono's pepper bar.

Rap Cat was absent from the airwaves for a while, but now he's make a triumphant return. Checkers is putting together a website, www.rap-cat.com, although most of it is still under construction. It looks like they're going to have merchandise and ringtones, so I expect to soon have a Rap Cat doll and to have my cell phone chant "Meow meow meow meow..." rhythmically whenever I have a call (hopefully to the horror of all those around me).

I don't eat at Checkers myself (any inkling I might have had to do so ended with a brutal murder a couple years ago at the Checkers just outside of Celebration...instead of bacon cheeseburgers, the chain brings me visions of a poor, innocent grandma being shot through the drive-through window). But from what I've seen on YouTube, their current bags double as Rap Cat costumes that you can put on your cat; if you videotape its performance, you can send it in for possible fame on their website. Maybe I'll have to overcome my aversion temporarily in order to get some "clothing" for Stitch and Farquaad.

If you come from an unfortunately state where Rally's and Checker's don't have a presence, be sure you fit some TV time in around your trip to Disney World. I promise you, once you see him, you will never get his trademark rap out of your head.

Is This Illinois or Florida?!

Lately, the weather here in Central Florida has been pretty darned close to winter in Chicago. We've had freeze warnings several nights this week. Yes, freeze warnings, i.e. the temps. have been dipping below 32 degrees. Brrrrrr! I never want to hear the words freeze and Florida uttered in the same sentence, unless it's in the context of "Freezes never occur in Central Florida."

But sadly, those words are not true, and my thinned-out Floridian blood has been causing me to shiver and pile on the layered clothing whenever I go out at night. I have a couple of jackets, but nothing thick enough to ward off temps. in the 30s and 40s. I know that I need to buy one, but I am stuck in some sort of stubborn denial. Perhaps I should buy one; for all I know, I'm the reason for all this freezin'. After all, I've learned through trial and error that I can ward off rain simply by carrying an umbrella with me. If I leave it in the care, telling myself, "Those dark clouds don't mean a thing," I'll inevitably get caught in a downpour. If I grab the umbrella, it will stay dry as a bone, even if the clouds are pitch black.

Following that same theory, maybe I just need to buy a winter coat. If I buy it, no doubt I'll never need to use it, and that would definitely be worth the investment.

The really sad thing is that I'm not only hearing the word freeze but also that obscene phrase wind chill. A wind chill here in Celebration?! Has the world gone mad?! But supposedly we've got one in the 20s tonight...again, something more suited for Chicago.

Of course, I was foolish enough to buy a few flats of flowers two weeks ago. I lovingly planted them around Duloc Manor, thinking that I was in the clear. Now, I've been out for several nights straight, covering the ones in the flower beds and hauling in the others that I planted in pots. So far they've all survived, but they're in for another round of freezing tonight, and I don't know how much more their delicate constitutions can take.

My husband proved that he is certifiably insane the other night...he actually suggested that we go into the hot tub!!! Worse yet, I am probably crazier than him because I took him up on it. We've both been so busy with work that we haven't made it out into the bubbly, therapeutic water in ages. Finally we had a quiet evening, so he enticed me out into the yard, wrapped like a mummy in a robe and towel. I unwrapped my cloth "bandages" and sprinted into the hot tub in record breaking time. Once you're in, the hundred degree water negates the cold outside. Problem is, there is a physics rule that states: What goes in must come out. Ugh!!!!

After putting off the inevitable as long as possible, I lept up from the water, launched myself down the steps, and galloped into the back door like an Olympic sprinter. Yes, the soak and jet message was worth it...but just barely.

Over the next week the temps. are supposed to slowly but surely climb back up to normal. In the meantime, I am tolerating the deep freeze by repeating my new meditation mantra: "Chicago is single digits...Chicago is single digits..." That mantra never fails to remind me that freezing is all a matter of perspective.

Spontaneity is the Spice of Life

One of the pitfalls of living in Celebration, i.e. within spitting distance of Disney World, is that you don't visit the theme parks nearly as much as you'd think. When you move into town, eyes wide with wonder and pixie dust and brain reeling with the fact that Mickey Mouse is your neighbor, you tend to vow, "I'll be at the Magic Kingdom nearly every day!"

But something so close tends to be neglected as the rhythm of everyday life and responsibility takes hold. Now, I'm lucky if I get over to the theme parks once a month (although hubby and I usually make it to the restaurants more frequently).

Last night, inbetween my work, I was perusing a Disney World website. Reading about the parks soon sparked a tugging at my heart. Here I was, sitting eight miles from the Magic Kingdom toll plaza. Unlike most of the people posting on the forum I was reading, I could partake of the magic virtually any time I choose. I began to feel a longing that I knew wasn't going to disappear until I'd had my WDW fix.

I still had plenty of work to do, but one of the advantages of working from home is that you can take a little break (even tho' you pay for it later by working till 1 a.m.). I hollered upstairs to hubby, "Hey, want to go to the Magic Kingdom tonight?" For him, there's only one answer to that question, so shortly thereafter we were piled into the Family Truckster and heading down World Drive.

I wasn't sure how bad the crowds would be, but from the looks of the parking lot, I figured they were relatively minimal. It was already after 7, so a goodly chunk of exhausted guests had already bailed for home. While I enjoy visiting Disney at any time of the day, nighttime is particularly special. There's nothing like the sight of the castle, bathed in colored lights and sillouhetted against the black velvet sky, to spark a sense of wonder and magic.

We took the ferryboat over, and I admired the view of the three monorail resorts (the Polynesian, Contemporary, and Grand Floridian). For me, they will always be the icons of Disney World, no matter how many additional hotels are built. When I made my first trip, they were the only three hotels (not counting Downtown Disney), and the Swan and Dolphin were under construction. Now, in no particular order, there is Boardwalk, the Yacht and Beach Clubs, Port Orleans and PO Riverside, Saratoga Springs, Coronado Springs, Caribbean Beach, Pop Century, the three All-Stars, Wilderness Lodge, Animal Kingdom Lodge, and whatever else I may have forgotten.

Over the years, we've stayed in most of the others, and I dearly love the Wilderness Lodge, but the Contemporary will always hold a special place in my heart because it was my first Disney World hotel. It sparkled like a jewel with pinpoints of light punctuating the A-framed structure in the distance. The Poly and Floridian sat on the banks of the lake, giving off a homey, inviting glow to the boatloads of weary tourists heading back from a long day at the Magic Kingdom.

There were only a handful of stragglers aboard the ferryboat with us, and no lines to get into the park. Despite the moderate crowd, I did cringe at the sudden realization that there was some sort of cheerleading event going on. The majority of the humanity surrounding us was blonde, perky, tall, teenaged, and skinny to the point of bullemia. If you had hollered, "Hey, Buffy!", 100 pony-tailed pom-pom bearers would undoubtedly have yelled, "What?!"

I've read many stories of the Cheerleading Hoardes disrupting pre-shows with cult-like chants and performing spontaneous acrobatics on Main Street, but thankfully we were spared any such antics. Actually, we had to perform some acrobatics of our own, as we arrived just in time for the Spectromagic parade. Trying to make any headway into the park at parade time is like trying to swim backwards through a pit of quicksand while wearing a 50 lb. lead swimsuit.

We managed to make our way to Adventureland, where hubby was eager to gain his first taste of the new and improved Pirates of the Caribbean. I heartily approve of the new ride, since it features three guest appearances by an Audioanimatronic Johnny Depp (and the waterfall effect is very cool, too).

There was no wait, so we breezed through the queue line and right onto a boat for our trip through the pillaged village. Afterwards, we decided to see if the line for Big Thunder Mountain was manageable. It was only 20 minutes...a bit long for my taste, but worth it for a night ride. BTM is fun at any time of the day, but the lighting makes it a special treat after dark.

Little did I know that we were in for a special treat. Just as we boarded the runaway mine train and headed out onto the tracks, the Wishes fireworks display kicked off. It was a little taste of Heaven to barrel around the mountain while the sky above lit up with a panoply of multi-colored explosions.

There was only one small problem...I have hyperacusis, and noises at a certain pitch cause me pain. Unfortunately, fireworks are right at that pitch. I solved the problem as I normally do, by clamping my hands firmly over my ears. But that meant that I wasn't holding on, so I was pitched back and forth like a ship weathering the stormy seas. It added quite an interesting aspect to the ride!

At the end, we hurried to the exit to watch the rest of the fireworks show. Then we headed off to the Jungle Cruise, which was walk-on, and ended our day at the Haunted Mansion after a quick stop for a Dole Whip. We hiked over to Tomorrowland, but we didn't have quite enough time to slip in a ride on Space Mountain. I didn't mind too much, as I love visiting Tomorrowland at night just for the lights and decor. Much of it is a retro-futuristic Art Deco style, and there are multi-colored lights everywhere. It's my favorite area of the park at night; I love to ride Wedway (or whatever they call it these days) just to revel in the scenery below.

As we took the ferryboat back to the parking lot, there was one more piece of magic in store. It was time for the nightly water parade! We hurried up to the top deck and enjoyed the lighted "floats" as they danced and changed to the bubbly music. As I leaned on the rail, watching the light show below, I reminded myself that spontaneity is the spice of life. Sure, it's important to attend to responsibilities, but you have to break free every once in awhile. That little two-hour Disney fix was more energizing than a hundred cups of coffee (and much better for my soul!). I am one of the very lucky people who lives next door to Mickey...I never want to take that for granted. Life is meant to be enjoyed, and spontaneous enjoyment is all the more fun.

The Way an Annual Pass Should Be

Living in Celebration, literally next door to Disney World, it's easy to forget that there are other theme parks in Orlando. My husband and I do tend to venture over to Universal Studios Florida/Islands of Adventure every now and then, but one of the Disney parks usually wins out because of the convenience factor. We have annual passes for both theme park complexes, but when we weigh a short jaunt down World Drive vs. a nerve-racking NASCAR experience on I-4, the Mouse usually wins.

This year, we purchased "two years for the price of one" USF/IOA passes via a special promotion. That was back in September, but we finally got around to activating them this past weekend. Normally, they would get stashed in our wallets and forgotten for a few months, until I decide that I need a ride on Hulk or Spiderman, but my husband chanced across some information on the USF/IOA AP website that ratched them up several notches in my theme park estimation.

Universal has introduced something called a Premier Annual Pass, which includes a very valuable benefit: Express Access to all of the rides and shows at both parks after 4 p.m. every day. Sweeeeeeeet! USF/IOA already offers that perk to guests of their onsite hotels, and those lucky saps get it all day, from park opening to closing. They also sell a one-day Express Access pass, but it's only good once on each ride.

The Premier Pass strikes a perfect balance...while it would be nice to have all-day front-of-the-line access (or nearly so...Express Access waits run anywhere from zero to 10 minutes on average, depending on the crown density), I have no problem with getting to the parks at 4. CityWalk (Universal's answer to Downtown Disney/Pleasure Island) has a plethora of wonderful restaurants, from Bubba Gump's to Margaritaville. Most of them are open early, so I figure hubby and I will enjoy a late lunch/early dinner around 2:30 before heading over to the theme parks. Their hours of operation vary by the season, but even if it's only until 6 or 7, traipsing to the front of all the lines means you can accomplish just as much in a short timeframe as you would all day if you had to wait at least half and hour a pop (and much longer than that in the summer).

For example, on the day that we upgraded our passes to the Premier version, we rode the Mummy roller coaster 8 time, Men in Black, 3 times, saw Twister, and rode Jaws, E.T. and Back to the Future all in the space of three hours. The park was only moderately crowded, with standby waits between 20 and 40 minutes, but it was such a treat to bypass the hoi polloi and traipse through the special entrance, waving our passes like a talisman of privilege. Like Fast Passes at Disney, Universal has two checkpoints for its Express Access entrances where you have to show your hotel key, Premier Pass, or one-per-ride ticket. I was amazed at the number of people who snuck by the first checker and who thought they had it made, only to be turned away just as they reached the inner sanctum.

I don't think many people have the Premier Passes yet because most of the "gatekeepers" gave them a pretty thorough going-over, and one actually said that this was the first time he'd encountered one. I'm surprised...apparently they have been available since September, and I'd think they would have been popular with locals over the insanely busy Christmas season.

During the summer, I avoid the Disney theme parks like the plague, other than an occasional people-watching jaunt. Disney has Fast Pass, which I am quite adept at using to my advantage. But in the peak season, it's virtually impossible to work them in a convenient manner unless you're staying all day. Fast Pass works by assigning you a return time for a particular attraction. For example, let's say it's 9 a.m. and you want to ride Soarin', but the standby line is already an hour. You check out the Fast Pass distribution machines and discover that if you get one, you can return to ride it with a minimal wait between 11 and noon. Kill two hours riding red-haired stepchild attractions that never have a line, then return, buzz through the FP queue in mere minutes (snickering to yourself as you notice that the poor standby saps are now dealing with a posted 120 minute wait time), and enjoy your handglider trip over rivers, mountains, orange groves, and golf courses.

Problem is, you can only hold a Fast Pass for one attraction at a time. No getting another one until you reach the "start time" of your current one. If it's a particularly busy day, all the FPs at the most popular attractions might well be gone by that time.

Also, it takes a lot of coordination and difficult choices. At Disney-MGM, it's pretty easy...the only must-do ride for me is Twilight Zone Tower of Terror, although hubby often begs for Rockin' Roller Coaster. At Animal Kingdom, I usually opt for Kilimanjaro because I can use the single rider line on Everest. At Epcot, it's a no-brainer (Soarin', of course). But at Magic Kingdom, it's always a toss-up: Do I want a FP for Buzz Lightyear? Space Mountain? Jungle Cruise? Big Thunder Mountain? Arrrghhhhh!!! Too many options!

At USF/IOA, I don't have to worry about making any choices. Just arrive in the late afternoon and ride whatever I want, whenever I want, as much as I want. Theme park heaven!

USF has quite a few good rides and shows, but I imagine that I'll focus most of my efforts on The Mummy. The easiest way to describe it is a combination dark ride/roller coaster, but that doesn't do it justice. It has the coolest fire effects ever, plus air time that will have your butt levitating over the seat as you plunge down hills in the darkness. It's was Everest could be if Disney dared to put in a real thrill ride. I won't even compare it to the snore-fest called Rockin' Roller Coaster. Even though it doesn't go upside down, Mummy is what an enclosed roller coaster should be.

Still, it's nice to know that I can ride anything in the park. At Disney, not all of the rides even offer Fast Passes. At USF/IOA, there is an Express Access entrance for every ride, plus the shows too. At USF, I enjoy Men In Black, a souped-up version of Disney's Buzz Lightyear shoot fest, but I can't ride it too often because it tosses in some fairly intense spinning. Unless I have a high blood sugar content, spinning gives me a whanging headache.

I can't take too much of Back to the Future either...it doesn't spin (it's a motion simulator), but for some reason it gets to my head much in the same way that Body Wars at Epcot has always made me queazy. I can ride Star Tours with no ill effects, but Body Wars is a puker for me, and Back to the Future is the same. I like to ride it once...and only once...a day.

I like the E.T. dark ride, even though it's mainly aimed at the kiddies, and Jaws is corny but I still like to give it a go. I love Twister (more of a show than a ride), and the Terminator 3-D show is the best!! I usually check out the animal show, too, and although I haven't seen Fear Factor yet, that will probably enter the rotation. I am neutral on the Shrek 3-D show and the Johnny Neutron simulator...I guess they're worth it if there is no wait, but time wasted on them is time that could be better spent on The Mummy.

At Islands of Adventure, there are two places to concentrate my attention: the Hulk roller coaster and Spiderman, an incredibly innovative combination dark ride/simulator. I've ridden dozens of roller coasters in my day, since I'm married to a coaster enthusiast, and Hulk is among my top three all-time favorites (the others are Magnum at Cedar Point and Batman at Six Flags Great America). The thing that wins me over is the fact that you are blasted up the lift hill and right into a heartline spin before you shoot through a traditional loop. I love being upside down, and Hulk whips me head over heels right from the start of the ride.

Spiderman is great because there is nothing else like it. Normally, I would expect that sort of innovation from Disney, but IOA really has them beat with Spidey. They have some other good rides, like Dueling Dragons (twin suspended coasters), Dr. Doom (a freefall) and Jurassic Park (a water ride), but I know where I will be concentrating my efforts.

The Premier Pass also has some other cool (and occasionally perplexing) benefits, from free valet parking to free Halloween Horror Nights passes to eight free bottles of water (?!). At Usf/IOA, the valet parking is nearly as valuble as the line-cutting. If you're never been there, imagine the length of the walk from the Ticket and Transportation Center parking lot to the Magic Kingdom transportation...and triple it!! Epcot may stand for "Every person comes out tired," but the Universal complex should be called Epcit (Every person comes in tired). Valet shortens the walk by a third.

Usually I dread the coming of Spring Break, with summer hot on its heels, because it means the end of my theme parking. This year, I don't have to worry...sure, the drive might be a little longer, but riding without a wait will make up for the drive time and then some. Now, if they would only sell an Express Pass for I-4, my world would be complete.

Perfect Timing

My Christmas Eve was one of those rare instances of perfect timing, when everything falls into place. It was something I never could have planned; it just turned out that way on its own. I had tried to plan it out as closely as possible...I booked 7:30 p.m. reservations at California Grill, the restaurant on top of Disney's Contemporary Resort. The Magic Kingdom fireworks were scheduled for 9 p.m., so there was a small possibility that we'd be done eating by then; otherwise, we'd have to interrupt our meal to see them. Not the best option, but I'll make the sacrifice of cold food to see Holiday Wishes.

We planned to attend the 11 p.m. service at Community Presbyterian Church, so my mind weighed just how early we'd arrive. It looked like we'd probably have to swing home first because we'd probably be back in Celebration by 10, and I didn't want to sit around the church for an hour. It was a delicate balance, though, as last year the church had been so crowded for the last-night that we barely found a seat in the main sanctuary.

As we trundled off to the Contemporary, the heavens let loose with a vicious rain shower. We decided to use the valet parking that's available for free to Disney Dining Experience members (the DDE card is something you can purchase to receive discounts on Disney World meals). As we zipped down World Drive in the Family Truckster, I watched lightning flash behind the clouds in God's own version of a holiday fireworks show. We dropped the car off with the valet and headed into the very first hotel that I ever stayed on on Disney property.

Because it was my first, the Contemporary holds a special place in my heart. Granted, it's not obviously themed like the other properties, but it still has an ambiance all its own. I feel it the moment I step inside, as the hotel has its own smell. I know that might sound odd, but it really does, and I'd recognize it blindfolded (the Wilderness Lodge does, too). The monorail runs right through the hotel...how cool is that?! I love the Grand Canyon Concourse, a shopping and dining area; as you browse through the stores, you can hear the monorail rumbling overhead.

The hotel was packed with holiday revelers; we made our way through them like salmon struggling upstream and checked in at the downstairs podium for our California Grill reservations. On the way, I noticed all sorts of neat little holiday touches: Santa on a throne, visiting with the kiddies, a life-size scene from Pinochio carved out of chocolate, a group of carolers, and Christmas trees everwhere.

You are not allowed to go up to the restaurant, which is located on the top floor, unless you have reservations. The common, non-dining hoi polli are banned from its expansive views of the Magic Kingdom and the lake, and they cannot watch the fireworks from its viewing platforms. Thankfully, we were on the list, so we were allowed to descend to the Contemporary's lofty, well-guarded heights.

We requested a window seat (a real treat, given the panoramic view from 15 stories up) and were told it would be 20 to 25 minutes longer. We figured that was fine, since we didn't want to be too early for church. We headed upstairs and found a table and chairs in the lounge where we could relax until our beeper summoned us to a fine dining experience.

To kill time, I requested a copy of the menu. I was given a sheaf of papers containing everything from the main menu to the cheese selection to both the regular and reserve wine lists. I passed the wine offerings over to my husband, as he is the vino enthusiast in the family, and immersed myself in the description of the cheeses. I order the cheese plate at every fine dining establishment we visit at Disney World. I was anxious to indulge in some new offerings, as we hadn't been to California Grill in years.

As we waited, I noticed the odd paradox in the restaurant's ambiance. It's the sort of place that you'd normally expect to be relatively quiet and dignified. The decor reminds me of Palo, the adults-only restaurant on Disney's cruise ships, and with entrees averaging $35, it's a few notches up from the local Dennys. But the atmosphere itself was pure Dennys, with kids running around like crazed, rabid weasels. That's a side effect of any restaurant at Disney World, of course, but it just seemed so out of place in an establishment of the California Grill's stature.

In one example of stellar parenting, the adults plopped their passel of offspring at a lounge table near ours, then proceeded to sit at another table as far away from the fruit of their loins as possible! Perhaps it wasn't a very Christmasy thought, but as I observed the mayhem around me, I suspected that many of the people had dug up their money jars in the yard outside their trailer (ala Randy Quaid in "Vegas Vacation") in order to finance their dinners. Yes, I know that's kind of snotty, but it's hard to find the good in people when one of their little darlings is screaming in your ear while the other has just slammed into your chair for the tenth time because he'd rather squeeze behind it than walk through the gaping aisle mere inches away, and mom and dad are oblivious on the other side of the building.

Soon my mind was drawn from the mayhem by a server who stopped by to see if we wanted to order drinks. Hubby had been pondering a bottle of wine, and the server recommended a somewhat pricey but intriguing vintage from the reserve list. It sounded really good, but hubby was drawn to a different bottle with the eye-catching name "Rocket Science."

We settled in to wait for our wine, which seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time. Finally the server returned and explained that he had good news and bad news. The bad news was that they were all out of "Rocket Science." The good news was that we could have the pinot noir he had recommended at the "Rocket Science" price if we wanted (a great deal, since it lists for $45 more). We took that option, and it turned out to be an excellent choice. I'm not into fine wines myself (I prefer the cheap "fine wine product" at Publix), but I will usually try what my husband is drinking. This vintage was so good that I ended up having a whole glass.

By this time, our table was ready. We settled in and gazed out at the dark lagoon; the Polynesian and Grand Floridian were visible in the distance, and off to the side I could just make out the monorail station at the Magic Kingdom. I watched the lights of the ferryboats as they transported the holiday crowds back and forth between the Ticket and Transportation Center. I'm sure the vast majority were vacationers, and I reminded myself how lucky I am to be "local." What a treat and privilege it is to be able to indulge myself in Disney World ambiance at any time!

I decided to order a plethora of appetizers instead of locking myself into a main course. We decided to split the mission fig flatbread, and then I ordered the cheese selection of five mouth-watering varieties, each paired with an "enhancer" like honeycomb or quince compote. Instead of a main course, I selected duck foie gras, and hubby promised to share a portion of his filet mignon.

As an added treat, the nightly electrical parade on the water was making it way to the Polynesian and the Grand Floridian. I watched in awe as the dancing animals and waving flags lit up on the lake. I've seen that parade countless times, but it still gives me a thrill. It's part of the fun that makes up the overall Disney experience.

In a perfect mesh of timing, the fireworks fell right between the appetizer and main course. At 10 minutes before 9, we finished the first course and trooped outside to the observation platform. The fireworks are always spectacular, but viewing them from 150 feet in the air added a new dimension. We could see the pyrotechnics around the castle, and we even saw Tinkerbell make her descent. The Contemporary pipes in the music, so you get the full effect. While my favorite holiday extravaganza is the holiday finale of Illuminations, Holiday Wishes was a close second.

After the show, we navigated back to our table, and our entrees appeared moments later. I was a bit taken aback by my next course...for some reason, I had thought that foie gras was pate, but I found myself staring at a big ol' duck liver on my plate! I took a cautious nibble, but it was too fatty for me. I adore beef liver, chicken liver, and just about any kind of pate, but this was prepared differently and looked a bit too graphic. My husband at most of it, while I confined myself to the huckleberry side dish and a chunk of his steak.

By dessert time, we were so full that we opted to split the lemon pudding (one of the lightest offerings on the menu). The completion of our meal occurred precisely at 10 p.m. Perfect! By the time we made our way downstairs and retrieved the car, that meant we'd arrive at church right around 10:30.

Back in Celebration, we found a parking spot right across from the church. The sanctuary was somewhat crowded, but not like the wall-to-wall crowd last year. Perhaps it's because Christmas fell on a Sunday this year, so there were multiple services to choose from (including added options at 5 and 7:30). But even though we could have gone before dinner, I never really considered anything other than 11 p.m. There's something about being in church on midnight as Christmas Eve segues into Christmas Day that gives me chills. It just seems so right. Better yet, it's a candlelight service, and I love the sight of the congregation standing in the darkened church, punctuated with dozens of flickering points of light, as we raise our voices in "Silent Night."

After the service, I reflected on what a perfect day we'd had to usher in Christmas Day (which we spent with Celebration friends, indulging in the traditional Chinese meal in honor of "A Christmas Story").

On the flipside, New Years Eve was also a matter of perfect timing, but in a much different way. We attended a house party, and both my husband and I brought our laptops along, since we both had to work. I set mine up on the kitchen table, with the volume turned up, in case a client needed to ring me. When I am in my virtual counseling office at Kasamba, I hear a loud jangle when someone is trying to contact me. There were a couple of regular clients who I knew might be checking in, and I was also available for new clients who might be in immediate need of help. I limited myself to one margarita because online counseling takes a fast mind and faster fingers, since it is conducted in a chatroom, so I didn't want to impair my abilities too greatly.

Sure enough, a new client buzzed me just before midnight. As the rest of the crowd clinked their champagne glasses and rushed outside to shoot off firecrackers, I was harnessed to the keyboard helping someone in crisis. By the time we finished our session, 2007 was already nearly an hour old.

Although it was a bit disappointing not to participate in the 12 a.m. revelry, that was negated by the realization that I played a part in someone else's perfect timing. One of the things I like best about doing online counseling is that anywhere, literally anywhere in the world, can contact me (or any of the other counselors at Kasamba) immediately. If they are in the midst of a crisis, help is as close as their computer. No shuffling through the Yellow Pages and waiting until business hours to make an appointment. They can reach out and make immediate human contact, even if it's the middle of the night...even if it's a holiday.

The internet has brought many conveniences, from email to blogging to the most obscure video clips. While it might feel like a necessity now, people in my age range (and even a little younger) lived for a long time without it. But out of all of the things that the web provides on demand, I think that access to instant help is one of the most important. Perfect timing can be a fun thing, like timing dinner and fireworks just right, but for a person in the middle of an emotional meltdown, it takes on a much more critical meaning...assistance on demand.

Christmas, Festivus, Et.Al.

It's Christmas Eve in Florida...a cloudy, muggy day. That's just the way I like it, or at least when compared to Chicago snow. But I'm really not prepared for the holiday yet; this year, we did a "Skipping Christmas" maneuver and took a week-long cruise from December 9th to the 16th. That means we spent seven days of prime preparation time chowing at the buffet, lounging at the pool, and relaxing in the spa. We did do one Christmas-preparatory activity: We attended the onboard gingerbread house-building seminar. Sadly, due to Customs rules that forbid bringing opened food shore, we had to abandon our creation when we disembarked.

A week may not seem like much time to lose, but it is when you have a seven-day work week. I did manage to put up some unlighted decorations outside, and my husband assembled our silver aluminum Christmas tree, but that was the extent of our efforts this year. I suppose it all balances out, since last year we went whole hog due to being featuring on the Celebration Holiday Home Tour.

Even though we're well into the evening of Christmas Eve, I haven't quite caught the holiday spirit yet. That's probably because the Turner "Christmas Story" 24-hour marathon doesn't begin for another two hours. For me, Christmas doesn't truly begin until I've seen Ralphie beg for the Holy Grail of presents: A Red Ryder BB gun.

Actually, I won't get to tune in until tomorrow. Pretty soon we'll head out to Disney World for dinner at the California Grill atop the Contemporary Resort. We'll watch the Magic Kingdom fireworks from our restaurant vantage point, and then we'll head off to Com Pres for the 11 p.m. candlelight service. By the time we're done with all that, I know that it will feel like Christmas.

On Christmas Day, it will be a Chinese feast with friends in honor of the "Christmas Story" finale. Last year, we added our own comic touch by finding a long, black hair in the orange beef. I'm not sure if we can top that in 2006, but I'm sure that we'll try.

On the home front, we've decided to embrace the fact that our tree is virtually decoration-free. My husband did string some sad-looking plastic bead-and-bell garland around its boughs, but neither one of us felt like tackling the ornaments. Since it is aluminum, we've decided to declare it a Festivus Tree...a bit fancier than the traditional Festivus Pole, but fashionably shabby-looking nonetheless.

In addition to the Airing of Grievances and the Feats of Great Strength, we will incorporate our own Christmas tradition: The Scratching of the Lottery Tickets. Since neither my husband nor I ever knows what we should buy for each other, we've solved the problem in a simple fashion. We buy a slew of instant lottery tickets, divide them up, and indulge in a gambling frenzy on Christmas morning. But this year we've decided to extend the fun...although Festivus is technically December 23rd, I think it makes more sense to extend the holiday season in any way possible. Thus, our customized celebration will take place on the 26th.

All in all, it promises to be another interesting holiday here in Celebration. It's a far cry from the first Christmas after we bought Duloc Manor. We'd only owned it for four short months, so we didn't have a Christmas tree or any decorations yet. We bought a little tabletop tree complete with decorations and erected it in the front room. We've long since graduated to "real" trees, but we still own that first little piece of holiday cheer.

It's time to get ready for dinner, so MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY NEW YEAR, OR HAPPY WHATEVER YOU CELEBRATE!!!

December Horse Play

Although I'm feeling pretty Christmasy, it's hard to go whole hog when the temperatures are flirting with the 80s. That's what I love about living in Florida; today, December 21, just three days away from Christmas Eve, I just returned home from a five hour horseback ride. Back in Chicago, I'd probably be bundled up and shivering.

Actually, I didn't originally plan to ride that long today. I went out in Lake Louisa State Park with the barn owner, who had a rare day off. Usually her riding time is very limited, but for once the work was under control so we could take a long, relaxing ride. We ended up going out to the South Trail, which is as far as you can possibly go...literally from one end of the state park to the other.

The weather was perfect for riding. It was warm, but not blisteringly hot, and the bugs were blissfully absent. The day was beautiful, the horses were energetic, and our butts were ready for the abuse of some long hours in the saddle.

Figment was happy to have a buddy along, since we usually ride by ourselves. But even though he is very brave when I ride him alone, he turns into a thousand-pound wimp when he's in a herd. He insists on staying behind the other horse(s), and if the other equine balks, he has to do the same. He'll do it even when the other horse is balking at something that Figgie has seen a dozen times. Thankfully, he usually won't spook too badly (i.e. bolt or jump to the side) even if another horse is spooking, unless there really is something terrifying (like a horse-eating deer or a homicidal flock of birds).

Boudreaux, the barn owner's horse, is very calm and well behaved 95 percent of the time, but he likes to make up for it during the other five percent, tossing in a major spook every now and then. Poor Boudreaux attracts deer like his manure attracts flies. Granted, there are a lot out in the state park, but we always see a disproportinate number when Boo is along. They like to surprise him by popping up suddenly out of the brush, so of course he has to leap wildly to the side. The barn owner is quite good at riding out his silliness, but it's always quite a surprise to be plodding along calmly and then, suddenly...EEEEKKKK!!! A DEADLY DEER!

Figment is no angel himself. Like Boo, he's good most of the time, but then his Evil Figgie personality takes over. He tosses in a spook every now and then and gets an attitude problem if I try to force him to walk in the front of the pack.

But for the most part the horses were very good, especially considering that we probably covered over 15 miles today. We had neglected to pack any human snacks (I always bring a handful of horse cookies); all we had was water, and our stomaches started rumbling three hours into the ride. Fortunately, a long stretch of the trail runs through an orange grove. We stopped for a sweet citrus snack and allowed the horses to have some grazing time.

The ride was great fun, but by the time we had reached Hour Four, our butts were ready for a break. As we stretched into Hour Five and turned onto the trail home, I could almost hear my rump rejoicing. On the way, we stopped at the water trough at the trail head, and both Boo and Figgie drank like dehydrated camels.

When we got back to the barn, we hosed the boys down and turned them out in the round pen, which was supplied with several stacks of peanut hay. Back in Illinois, Figment ate a timothy/alfalfa mix hay, and the first time he was served the peanut variety, he gave it an evil look. Eventually he started eating it grudgingly. Then suddenly he realized that it's actually a taste treat, and now he would rather eat peanut hay than fresh grass, carrots, and even apple cookies!

As I watched Figgie blissfully rolling in the dirt before he buried his nose in a hay feast, I reminded myself that Christmas Eve was less than 72 hours away. What a wonderment to be basking in the sunshine, wearing a t-shirt, and enjoying the warmth.

It reminded me of a long ago Christmas Eve when there was a strange anomaly in Chicago. At the time, I had owned my first horse, Cochise, for maybe two or three years, so it was over 20 years ago. We'd had the usual snowfall, but on this particular December 24th, the temperature went up into the 70s!! All of the snow melted, flooding the wide, open fields where we used to ride. The water was not quite up to a horse's knees, so 'Chise and I cantered through the flooded grass, sending up a stream of water, delighting in the fact that we were doing this the day before Christmas!! It's quite a standout memory to be wearing a t-shirt and playing in water at that time of year in Chicago.

That night, the weather was stranger still. I went to a barn down the road to meet up with some friends, and we were all gathered around the fireplace in the game room, listening to the thunderstorm outside. Yes, a thunderstorm! I can't even describe how odd it was to hear the rumbling ruckus outside at a time of the year when a blizzard would have been the norm.

Now, sunshine, water play, and rainstorms in December are the norm for me. Yes, it's a little hard to equate with Christmas, but that's just fine with me. It's just one of the many pleasures of living in the Sunshine State...a Christmas "present" that I can enjoy all winter long.

The Quest for Cocoa Wheats

Ah, the comfort foods of childhood! One of my favorites was Coco Wheats, a hot cereal along the same lines as oatmeal or cream of wheat. As a matter of it, the best way to describe it is a cocoa-ized version of cream of wheat, although that's not completely accurate. Even though it is chocolately, it is not sweetened at all. As a kid, I sprinkled it liberally with sugar and drowned it in a pool of milk, stirring it into a teeth-jangling, soupy glop.

When I reached adulthood, I usually kept a box or two of Coco Wheats in the cupboard. I lost the taste for sugar, but it made a yummy cocoa treat when I was in the mood for a quick fill-'er-up. Although it's good at any time of the year, I've always perceived it as a cold-weather food. Like oatmeal, it sticks to your ribs, so it makes a handy breakfast or a way to attack an evening craving. Because it is warm and hearty, it tastes particularly good when the cold winds are blowing outside and snowflakes are swirling around the window panes.

When we moved to Celebration, Coco Wheats slipped from my mind. You don't see many snowflakes in Florida unless they are made of soap, and "cold" is a relative term. For two years, my inner child did without, but suddenly this winter a craving cropped up out of nowhere. It was during our last cold snap, when temperatures in the Orlando area were actually flirting with the freeze point. My inner thermostat clicked, and suddenly I wanted to fill up on some pre-hibernation comfort food.

I dutifully added Coco Wheats to the shopping list, and as hubby and I navigated the aisles of Publix, I headed to the cereal aisle with an air of assurance. My eyes scanned the offerings: Oatmeal in various shapes and forms, Cream of Wheat, Malt-o-Meal, grits.....argh!! Something was missing!

I was aghast that such a staple item would be absent. My husband scanned the shelves in case I had somehow skipped over the object of my desire. Soon he, too, had to admit defeat. There were no Coco Wheats to be had. My mind was boggled...could a food item that I had taken for granted throughout my entire childhood and on into adulthood really be just a regional fad?

Since my husband was slated to return to Chicago for work, I charged him with an important responsibility: Go to "da Jewels" (Chicago-speak for visiting the grocery store) and pick up a supply of my favorite hot cereal. Here in Celebration, I live without real Chicago style pizza (Beggars Pizza in Blue Island is the best) and genuine Chicago hot dogs (Portillos is good, but JR's has them beat, with the added bonus of an Orange Julius-type drink with the explosive name "Orange Bang"). But everyone has their limits...I cannot survive without Coco Wheats!

Hubby dutifully fulfilled his task, and I descended on him like a locust, snatching the precious box from his clutches practically before I gave him a "welcome home" kiss. He also told me that he had looked up the official Coco Wheats website and discovered that it might be available at Wal-Mart. Publix is a lost cause; supposedly you can request it from the store manager, who then must order it through "Gourmet Award Foods." That seems a little complicated for a chocolate cream of wheat knock-off.

It's strange to see the things that Publix carries (or doesn't); another impossible-to-find item is good old potato dumplings. Being of Austrian/Hungarian descent, I need a fix of turkey paprikash on a fairly regular basis. (Yes, I know it's traditionally made with chicken, but hubby is allergic to chicken meat so we use the next-closest option.) Dumplings are an essential component of paprikash, and in Chicago they were readily available at the Jewel grocery store.

Here in Florida, the Publix closest to Celebration didn't carry them, but we found them at one a little farther down the road. In this area, the number of Publix stores rivals the number of Starbucks shops in the Chicago Loop...I can easily rattle off four or five located within a few miles of each other on 192. But for some unknown reason, that store abruptly quit carrying the coveted dumplings. Now all they have are some gross noodle-like things. My husband, who is the cook in our house, has had to learn to make his own out of Bisquick (just wait till I hit him up for traditional German farina dumplings!).

Oh well, even though dumplings are still a challenge, at least I have my Coco Wheats fix for now. And even though I think of it as a winter food, it sure tastes a heck of a lot better gazing out the window at swaying palm trees in the middle of December!

Thanksgiving Past and Christmas Future

Wasn't it just Halloween? How did Thanksgiving slip past me already? Can Christmas really be just three weeks away? 'Round about October, I think that God grabs His universal remote and plants His finger firmly down on the "fast forward button," and now here we are in the midst of the holiday season already.

It was a lovely Florida Thanksgiving; people often ask if I miss my family now that I am 1200 miles away, but in all honesty I can't say that I do. My parents passed away a long, long time ago. I have an older brother and sister, but my aunts and uncles are all gone, too, and we were never close with any cousins. I do keep in touch with my siblings, nephews, and nieces via the magic of free long distance on our cell phones, and because of the regular contact, I don't feel a compelling need to see them face to face at the holidays.

Yes, it would be nice to see them, but let's look at this realistically: Late November in Florida rarely means temperatures below the 70s or 60s. A Chicago winter can mean anything from tolerable 50s to bone-chilling single digits, and a snowstorm can blow in at any time. Which would you choose? Any family worth its salt should understand when a member prefers to stay among sunshine and palm trees instead of returning to a bleak winter wasteland.

In Florida, a majority of our friends and neighbors are in the same situation. They bailed from other parts of the country, leaving family behind, and they have no big compulsion to head back. I suspect that for many it's more than just the weather. Let's face it: Most of us don't hail from the Brady Bunch. The typical American household makes the "Married With Children" gang or the Simpsons look like a bastion of mental health. Who really wants to return to the dysfunctional family melee, especially when you have a geographic excuse to fall back on?

Thus, on Thanksgiving and Christmas, you will find many "families of choice" forming. Imagine if you could choose your own family members. Moving a thousand or so miles from home gives you a pseudo-opportunity to do so.

I prefer surrounding myself with people who put the "fun" in dysfunctional, and my Celebration social group reflects that. Here is our Thanksgiving "family portrait":



Don't we make a lovely group?! Christmas Day will be spent with friends, too, but on Christmas Eve I just had to continue the tradition that we started in 2005 and work in a dose of Disney World. I'd rather smear steak juice on my body and step into a pit of rabid wolverines than go near the theme parks on a holiday. But the resorts have plenty of wonderful dining options, so I called 407-WDW-DINE to see if there were any reservations still available.

I always wait until the eleventh hour to call for holiday reservations, so my choices are usually quite limited. Last year I lucked out and managed to get into Ohana at the virtually last minute on December 24th, but usually I can tell that the reservation agent is choking down chuckles at my insensible optimism. Still, my holiday procrastination can lead to discovery of some wonderful new restaurants. For example, calling on Valentine's Day afternoon was the way in which I discovered Ragland Road at Downtown Disney, which is now one of my favorite eateries at WDW.

For Christmas Eve, the only viable options when I called this week were California Grill and Flying Fish Cafe. I've eaten at both, although not for many years. It was a difficult choice, but I opted for California Grill because the available reservation time should allow us to see the "Wishes" fireworks right around the time that we are finishing our meal. I can't imagine a better way to spend December 24th than an exquisite fine dining experience, capped with a spectacular fireworks display before we head back to Celebration to get ready for the 11 p.m. candlelight service at Community Presbyterian Church.

I'm already prepared for a potential letdown on Christmas Day itself. How can it ever top last year, when we shared a meal of "Christmas Story"-esque Chinese food with friends and discovered a long, black hair in the Mongolian beef? And, more to the point, would I even want to top hairy Chinese food? Some legends are best left untouched. Instead, I will take the 2006 meal at face value and enjoy it on its own terms.

We've already made our annual pilgrimmage to see the Osborn lights, the Candlelight Processional, and the special ground-shaking Christmas version of Illuminations. Next up is a Disney cruise with our next-door neighbors (yes, Celebration really is a neighborly, close-knit town...in just three years, Gee Gee and Paw Paw have gone from being an intriguing presence on the "Sold" sign next door to Duloc Manor to our pseudo-parents...I just can't wait to show them all the wonders of the Disney Magic). By the time we get home from that, we'll be in the Christmas home stretch.

It's shaping up to be another lovely holiday season in Florida. I don't miss Chicago at all, particularly since it recently got battered by an early snowstorm and plunged into a single-digit deep freeze. I suppose that I do have one regret, though, but it's a generic one: The holiday season is just too darned short! I wish that God would switch from fast forward to slow motion because there is way too much to do and so little of that precious commodity called time.

Truckster Joins the Family

For a while now, our automotive family has consisted of Crush (our Neighborhood Electric Vehicle, which can only be used within the confines of the Celebration bubble and which rarely exceeds 23 mph even with the hammer down) and Canyonero, the trusty Aztek that we drove down from Chicago nearly two years ago. Good old Canyonero carried hubby and I, three cats, two fish, and a bird through a freak Atlanta ice storm that turned an 18 hour drive into 24 tedious, never-ending (and sometimes hair-raising) hours.

We've managed to juggle our lives around being a one-car family, but Canyonero is nearly five years old, and I've been worried that we're entering that ugly period when a car suddenly seems to self-destruct. We still have 22,000 miles left on our extended warranty, but that doesn't help with the inconvenience of shuttling it back and forth to the shop and finding a way to get home.

Between Canyonero's age and the occasional nuisance of one person wanting to go somewhere outside of Celebration while the other has the car, we decided it was time to expand the fold. I am a rabid Aztek fan, but sadly Pontiac stopped production back in 2005. We did find a used prospect on Car Max's website, but it was sold by the time we called. Reluctantly, I accepted the fact that it was time to switch brands.

I know that many people tie their identity, and sometimes even their self esteem, into the car they drive. I am very much the opposite; a car is a necessary evil, so I only care about two things: price and side curtain air bags (in Tourist Land, I want all the protection I can possibly get). Also, my purchase of Canyonero represented my leap to the Dark Side (SUV ownership). To me, they always seemed like overkill, but one day I was tooling along in my Neon and realized that I was surrounded by giant rolling fortresses that could crush me like a bug without even noticing. Reluctantly I resolved to put myself on even footing, but I shopped on price rather than prestige.

The Aztek had the best features at the lowest price, and I realized that it had an additional advantage: It was ug-leeee! What better vehicle for a person who can't stand SUVs than the ugliest SUV possible? Nowadays the Aztek is actually pretty low on the visual pain scale, but back in '02 it was still a shocker.

So what meets the price/safety/ugliness triad in the 2007 model year? The Honda Element, of course! You have to love a toaster on wheels whose owners adopted the following motto:



We considered a few other vehicles but were leaning towards the E, so we headed off to our local dealer for a test drive. I did some preliminary price research, but nothing too heavy duty since we weren't planning to buy that night.

The salesman took us for a spin in a nice blue LX model. I noticed that all of the Elements had various combinations of overpriced dealer-installed extras, like pinstripes for $195 (nearly $200 for a stinkin' sticker?!), mudflaps, and wheel locks. I know enough from my research not to allow those items to enter into the negotiations. Dealers put them on to add to their profits or to give them more wiggle room; if they come down on something that is overpriced in the first place, it gives an uninformed consumer the erroneous idea that they are getting something valuable. I don't want those items, so if I dealer really wants to play hardball, they can either take 'em off or order me a new vehicle without them. Most of the time, if you really dig in your heels, they end up getting thrown in for free.

After the drive, I stepped inside and gave the salesman a chance to make his initial pitch. When I told him we wanted to shop around some more, he did a turnover to one of the sales managers. The manager had no idea whether we were the sort to do research, so he went through his spiel while I snickered internally. My favorite thing that he said was how the internet invoice doesn't include expenses like dealer prep, so I'd have to factor that in too. Uh, no, that is reimbursed by the manufacturer. But I didn't say anything, just nodded, listened, and formulated my opinion of how upfront they were likely to be when we entered into serious negotiations.

We departed and I got online, tearing up the keyboard to determine a fair offer. I learned about a scam that seems to be concentrated in certain states, with Florida being one of the worst offenders: the documentation charge. I imagine that dealers would take offense at the word "scam," but what else do you call charging $299 to $599, and sometimes even more, for simply doing the paperwork? That's like McDonald's tacking on a "burger assembly fee" or the local gas station assessing a "pump equipment usage charge."

In Illinois, the fee is capped around $50, and since I bought Canyonero on an employee purchase program, that was automatically waived. In Florida, a dealer must technically charge the same fee to every customer or risk a lawsuit. But a savvy buyer will make sure that an equivalent amount is deducted from the car price.

I decided that I would offer $100 over invoice, with the only acceptable additions being tax and the actual cost of the license and title. But I tossed in one more condition: a two-year extension of the bumper to bumper warranty. In Illinois, that's never been a problem since the warranty mark-up is insane, but I soon learned that Florida has some big roadblocks to that stipulation.

I was going to email a number of area dealers, but I decided to run the offer by the local dealership first. After all, they had taken the time to give us the test drive, and I like to keep my business close to home when I can. They agreed to the price, but without with the warranty. In Florida, it has to be sold at the same price to everyone, and you can't shop around for it after the purchase at out-of-state sources because the law stipulates that you can only buy it from someone in FL. Dealers must have a heck of a powerful lobby here!

They had a finance guy come out to talk to me, but all he did was yammer about how I shouldn't want a Honda-backed extended warranty anyway and how his third-party provider was better (yeah, and people thought Warranty Gold was better, too, till they went belly up). Not only that, but I noticed that he only pushed the Platinum plan, which is overkill for an Element LX. I tried to ask some questions about the Honda warranty, but he kept correcting me because he was so focused on the terms of the other plan. I'm not sure how that dog and pony show was supposed to convince me to take their deal; it would have been more effective to simply say, "We can't do that" and then make a counter offer. Since they didn't match my proposal, and didn't put anything else on the table, I decided to go home to do some more warranty research and send out my email blitz.

I soon realized that the warranty was a lost, so I focused on an out-the-door price for the car. My blitz brought in one decent offer via email ($100 less than the local dealer had offered, i.e. invoice price) and an even better offer on the phone ($225 less than invoice). I wasn't too surprised at the under-invoice quote because Honda has a 3% holdback (an additional sum of money that the dealer gets from the manufacturer in a complicated financial dance). That brings their actual cost to $600 or so below invoice, although dealers are usually quite loathe to cough any of the holdback to a buyer. Sometimes there are also factory-to-dealer incentives, although my online detective work didn't turn up any for the Element. Also, it's sometimes a matter of timing; a dealer may need to "roll a unit" to qualify for some sort of financial incentive. If they need to sell just one more car to qualify, it might behoove them to sell it at cost, or even below, to earn several thousand dollars from the manufacturer.

I really don't know what factors were behind the quotes we had received; I only knew that they looked pretty good. Since we had taken up a lot of the local dealer's time, I decided to give them a chance to match our best offer before we took our business elsewhere. I called the salesman and told him that if he could match that price, I would be in that evening to complete the purchase. He said "yes," so we shuttled off to the dealership, believing that the third time would be a charm.

The salesman was with another customer, so hubby and I poked around the lot. We weren't looking at a specific car, just any Element LX with base equipment. We had seen a couple of vehicles come and go on the lot over the past three days, and we wondered what colors were currently in stock. It looked like we were going to end up with silver; I prefer blue, but for the right price it could be Teaberry Pink or Horse Poop Brown.

Inside the dealership, I gave the salesman my notes, with a list of the quotes I had received. He asked if I had the lowest one in writing; I explained that I didn't but that I would be happy to call that dealer back and let him listen in while it was confirmed. Instead, he asked me to send copies of all my emails to one of the sales managers. I plopped down in the dealer's internet cafe and forwarded a copy of everything that I had sent out and the quotes that had come back via email.

At the salesman's desk, he pulled out an infamous four-square sheet and asked me to sign it to show my intent. I was a little puzzled because showing up for the third time should be a pretty strong sign of intent! The four-square is usually used to divert payment buyers and people with trade-ins from the numbers that the dealer doesn't want them to focus on; it's also used to make offers back and forth. That puzzled me, since I'd made it clear that I had one number; either they matched it or I'd buy from the other dealer.

As I scanned the sheet, I realized that there were no numbers at all. I told the salesman, "First. fill in the price we agreed to and all the details, and I will be happy to sign."

He said, "Okay, one minute," and disappeared. When he returned, it was suddenly impossible to do the deal unless I produced the lowest quote in writing. When I had called earlier, the salesman had asked if I had it, and I had made it quite clear that it was a phone quote. Now the terms were suddenly changing, which didn't sit too well with me.

A manager came out to tell me how the offer was probably a low-ball and I'd never get the car at that price unless the other dealership really, really needed to make another a sale regardless of the profit. He said he would still meet it if they would put it in writing, but he bent our ear about how it would practically be a loss and he'd only be doing it because it was the end of the month...blah...blah...blah. I don't really care about the reasons; all I wanted to know is would they sell me the car for that price or not.

Since he insisted on a written quote, our only option was to leave. He said to bring not only the price, but also a specific VIN number of the vehicle the other dealer would sell us. As we walked out to Canyonero, I thought, "If I go through all that trouble, why should I come back here? They've let me walk twice already, so they could easily pull the same trick again. Why not just go with the other dealer?" Sure, we liked our salesman and we'd had the test drive there, but now they had just wasted a couple hours of our precious time. If they believed that the quote was a lowball, they should have simply said on the phone, "If the deal doesn't work out, please give us a chance to match the second lowest quote."

We decided to eat out, and on the way to the restaurant, I called the low-offer dealer to see whether they would re-confirm the price. The person I had spoken with was gone for the day and wouldn't be returning till Friday. We had a nice dinner at Mimi's Cafe, and when we got home, I got a new email from yet another dealership. Coincidentally, it matched the second-lowest offer we'd gotten earlier. I fired off an email to our salesman, explaining that we appreciated his help but that we were just going to go with the low-quote dealer if they confirmed their offer because it didn't make sense to risk wasting our time again.

The next day, the local manager emailed me and also left a phone message asking me to submit the second lowest quote; he said he would let us know for sure if he would honor it. Duh! He already had that quote, since I had forwarded it right there at the dealership internet cafe at the salesman's request. Besides, why would I want the second lowest quote matched when I was reasonably confident of getting the lowest price?

I responded by reminding him that he already had the second lowest quote but that I wasn't worried about matching it because I had two other dealers who had confirmed it in writing. I explained that while I wanted to purchase locally, I was leery of being burned again. I rereiterated that we had visited his dealership fully prepared to buy a car twice; if they were serious, they could have either made a counter offer the first time (which I probably would have accepted) or offered to match our second-lowest quote if the rock-bottom deal didn't pan out. Why call and make that offer now, and worse yet, not have a definitive answer?

I hate it when a dealer feels that a customer should jump through hoops. If you think my offer is too low and don't want to be bothered, just tell me so. I'm not interested in reasons, justifications, etc. A simple "yes" or "no" will save us both time and energy. And the worst thing that you can do is make me an offer, then back down when I show up on your doorstep.

I emailed a request to the low-quote dealer (Holler Honda in Winter Park) to confirm their price in writing. On Friday, the salesman from the local dealer called, and I explained that I had responded to his manager via email and that I was now waiting for a call from the low-quoter. He said he would talk to his manager and call me back; in the meantime, Holler called me and promptly followed up with email verification. I called back our salesman to tell him that it was all a moot point now; I certainly wasn't going to give his manager another shot after being told "yes" and having it turn to "no" once already.

I said, "I'm sorry that he didn't believe me when I didn't have it in writing." The salesman kept insisting that it wasn't me they didn't believe, but rather the other dealer. I was snickering internally, remembering the old car sales motto: "Buyers are liars." No matter what they say, I think they let a foolish stereotype kibosh the sale. Perhaps they're just not used to people who present an offer up front; they're conditioned to dicker, so something in their genes prevents them from just saying "Yes" to a figure without increasing it in some way.

But thankfully not all dealers are like that. Dealing with Holler Honda turned out to be a very pleasant and painless process. I probably shouldn't even have gotten the closest dealer involved beyond the test drive; I like to support local businesses, but not when they make me waste time and actually work to give them my money!

Holler took my deposit over the phone and told me my new Element would be waiting for me on Saturday (they didn't have any in stock, so they traded with another dealer in Lakeland). Since they could get whatever color we wanted, we chose the nice midnight-blue color that we'd been favoring.

We did get a call from another dealer who offered the vehicle at $100 below Holler's price, plus a free extension of the powertrain warranty and free maintenance for a year. It was tempting, but they are out in Tampa so it wouldn't be practical to run out there for maintenance. It would have been nice to save an additional $100, but I was tired of negotiating and decided to stick with the known quantity.

On Saturday, hubby and I decided to combine the car pick-up with a stop at the spa store to replenish our supply of chemicals, since they are close to the dealer. We climbed into Canyonero and drove it off to meet its new sibling, stopping for lunch on the way.

We ate at Cafe Tu Tu Tango, reveling in the weekly specials (steak brushetta and a grilled goat cheese and crab sandwich with tomato and red pepper soup, and French cake with pears and homemade pistachio gelato for dessert). Tummies full, we tooled towards the spa store. Suddenly I looked at my husband and said, "Did you bring the check?"

Oops!!!

Back to Duloc Manor for the check, then back to I-4 for a grueling repeat journey. Now we didn't have time for the spa stop; instead, we headed directly to Holler. We managed to get lost once we got off the expressway, but after wandering aimlessly a bit in Winter Park, we finally reached our destination.

There was a blue Element sitting right near the gate, so we gravitated to it immediately, thinking that it was Truckster. A salesman came out and greeted us by name, guessing who we were by the vehicle we had approached and the sheaf of paperwork in our hands. Turns out it wasn't Truckster, which was still getting its final detail work. He showed us the correct vehicle, and we poked around looking for any scratches, dings, or other imperfections. After all, it might manage to survive for a whole week, or perhaps even two if we're lucky, in Tourist Land before the first door smack mars its perfect blue body. It looked great; I doubt that it was even test driven much at the dealer it came from. They are 58 miles away from Holler, and it had 63 on the odometer, meaning that it only ran up 5 miles at its original home.

The salesman started our paperwork, and everything was in order. I breathed a sigh of relief; after our experience with the local dealer, I was expecting some bogus fee or other deal breaker to pop out of the woodwork. The only bump in an otherwise butter-smooth road was a long wait for the finance person. But it was Saturday evening, and the dealership was packed, so that was understandable; even if three finance people working, the customers were backed up.

To kill time, the salesman gave us an in-depth review of Truckster's features. I tried to pay attention, but I couldn't help being distracted by that intoxicating new car smell. Still, I think I managed to key into the main points, i.e. how to turn the car on and how to use the headlights and windshield wipers. Anything beyond that is gravy!

In the finance office, we were offered the usual array of extras, but we took a pass on all of them. Most are high-profit for the dealer and low-value for the consumer, although we are still considering the pre-paid maintenance plan. But I wouldn't buy any of that without considering it and running some numbers, so we declined for the time being. Also, I never buy a car without having my own financial terms worked out; if you use the dealer for financing, you open the door to all sorts of schemes. At the very least, you're likely to pay too much in interest unless the manufacturer has a special program and if you qualify for it.

The only tactic that I didn't like at Holler was having to sign a mandatory arbitration agreement, which takes away your right to sue. Granted, you don't have to sign it, but some dealers will refuse to sell you the car unless you do. I had forgotten all about those agreements; since I was sick of shopping around, I signed and crossed my fingers that we'll never have to test it. But next time, I will make "no arbitration agreement" a condition of my internet quotes.

Another stipulation that savvy shoppers often plan on their offer is to not allow the dealer to affix a sticker with their name to the vehicle. The reasoning is, why should you provide free advertising? Here in the Orlando/Kissimmee area, my reasoning is just the opposite. I want that sticker, free advertising or not. Heck, I want anything that differentiates my car from the scores of rentals on the road. If a criminal looking for someone to "bump and mug" notices Truckster was is a private vehicle, he'll probably think, "Uh oh, a local! They could have a gun, and if they do, they can blow my head off legally if I dare to threaten them! Better look for easy rental car pickin's. After all, what's a tourist going to shoot me with? Their suitcase?"

Once the papers were signed and the payment was taken care of, our salesman showed us a few last things. Then he shook our hands, and we drove our new "baby" home (well, I did; poor hubby was stuck in Canyonero...I felt bad for him sitting in the dirty, dusty workhorse car that probably reeked of my barn gear and the tomato soup I spilled last week while I was breathing Eau di Assembly Line).

I did let him drive to our "celebratory dinner" at Mimi's (yes, we go there a lot...their French Quarter burger with avocado is to die for), and on the way home he took an abrupt detour. "I'm going to be the first person to drive it on Disney property!" he announced, heading for the Osceola Parkway gate. Sigh! Pretty soon the novelty will wear off, and I'll be the primary chauffer again, so I'll enjoy it while it lasts.

After church today, we outfitted Truckster with Celebration license plate frames and a Celebration plate on the front. At the moment, it has a "barfing orange" plate on the back (if you're not sure what I mean, click here). That will change at renewal time in October, when I get to choose from Florida's ridiculousy vast selection of affinity plates. We have everything from "State of the Arts" (whatever that means) to "Imagine" (imagine what?) to "Parents Make a Difference (especially if you're raised in a dysfunctional family!). I'll probably just get "Animal Friend," which promotes spaying and neutering, as the world definitely doesn't need any more spoiled, belligerent cats like the ones that run my household.

I find myself comparing Truckster to Canyonero, and my 'Tek still comes out the winner. The main things it's missing are daylight running lights/auto-on headlights, built-in compass/thermometer, a roll-out tray, and extra electrical outlets. But the Element is the next best thing, and I do like the fact that not only do the seats come out, but you can also flip them up and "hang" them out of the way. Also, the front seats have waterproof fabric, and there is no carpeting on any of the floor surfaces, so they are easily cleanable. (There's an urban legend that you can clean an Element out with a hose, but don't believe it. Technically you can do it...but only once.)

Hopefully my Element will stick out here in Celebration, the Land of Extremes (sometimes I feel like I'm surrouned by Hummers and Minis, with not much inbetween). I am ordering a decal for Truckster that I think will sum up its role here in our town quite well:



Overall, I'm pleased with Truckster. Sure, it's not an Aztek, but it's a pretty reasonable facsimile. I'm proud of my toaster on wheels and proud to echo the slogan of Element afficianados everywhere: "The Element...screw aerodynamics!!"