Apartment hunting was fun, and seeing all those new 'luxury' units did make me want to go out and buy a condo in one of the newer buildings. If you can have complimentary 24 hour coffee bars, internet service, and fabulous gyms as a renter, imagine what kind of amenities you would earn as an owner.

But, it is not to be. Rather than blow a whole lot of money, we've chosen, or more correctly, I've chosen, and G has humbly agreed, to an alternative plan: When G needs to be in town, he can stay with his mother. She already lives in a penthouse condo with a swanky Fort Lauderdale address. G thinks grown men who live with their mothers are big, fat losers. I see it as a temporary, complementary arrangement. He needs a cheap place to stay, and she needs help with miscellaneous home improvement projects. There's room for us when we come over too. She already jokes that I have nothing to fear during our frequent time apart. What's more harmless than a man who has dinner with his mom every night?

Back to the island. We'll have to survive with sporadic bursts of culture for a little while longer.

The girls and I are running into town today before the big afternoon thunderstorm. S wants her hair trimmed and we received a notice that we have a package at the post office. I suspect it's the exchanged Powerglide Ultimate. After taking a look at the Junior version, I decided los tres cochinitos (the three little pigs) probably wouldn't come up in conversation that frequently.

Speaking of cochinitos, G and I had another fine dinner down on Calle Ocho at the Versailles the other night while the girls had a sleep over at my parents'. Trying to stick to my modified Atkins/South Beach diet, I had the fried pork chunks, and then totally blew it with black beans, rice, plantains, and tres leches for dessert. Yo es cochinito.