Before I slip back into gloom and doom, my mood today, which, in addition to the matters below, may be exacerbated by my continued reading of Lewis Lapham's Theater of War (finally, someone who can coherently express my thoughts on the subject) and raging hormones, let me ask if you are all aware of your Constitutional right to surf? I can't locate the footage of the guy leaping off the Pompano Beach pier with his board or the follow-up interview, only this brief mention, I think WFOR-TV is trying to show how responsible they are by not linking it on their website, but it was awesome, dude.

The "After, After"


On the homefront: Our phone works again. Let's see how long it lasts this time.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program...

I spent the morning online reading some of the boards and blogs and rather than feeling better about catching up with goings-on, I feel worse. Schoolwork is being done, housework completed, extracurricular activities planned and carried out. Not here.

The girls and I are stuck inside our rental in this landfill of a neighborhood. We are surrounded by the kind of neighbors we affectionately call "Junkmeisters," you know, the ones with at least one car that doesn't run and/or loads of plastic toys permanently decorating their yards. Many of these people are, unfortunately, also the same kind accustomed to handouts, and now, instead of chipping away at the giant piles of rubble around them, they sit and wait for someone else to come and do it. Add large quantities of rain and tidal surges, and it gets uglier. They are victims, but victims with no desire to help themselves. The neighbors willing to clean up and repair their homes are waiting on a short supply of state certified contractors, up to eight weeks for an appraisal, only an appraisal, forget contracting them do the work, they're too busy. Can't play outside, too much debris and too many strangers about. My paranoia gave me a good idea for a horror story though. How about a predator who follows natural disasters and other catastrophic events in search of victims? This, inspired by the pick-up truck full of men who drove down our street after Charley, offering the kids Yoo-hoo (my first instinct was to cuss the pervs out until I realized they were sincerely trying to offer some hurricane relief) and the fact that there were about twenty names read off at our first homeschooling Park Day of people who still haven't been heard from since August 13.

Can't go to the park; our favorite playground may be the only one left standing, but the fence along the seawall blew away and the city will keep it closed until repairs can be made -- whenever that is.

Get the books out, you say? Well, we started this morning. G wanted to do Spelling Power first, which went well, and then her violin lesson, which is when things came to a screeching halt. No violin. Gone. I don't know how or why; it was practically the only thing in her closet, placed way up high on the top shelf in its case for safekeeping. If anyone wanted to steal anything from us I would guess it'd be the few measly pieces of electronics that we own, or maybe our large cache of camping equipment and drinking water stashed conveniently under the house, in plain view. It's got to be here somewhere, but where?

My husband is too busy on the east coast to assemble a crew over here, so he'll continue his disruptive back and forth pattern. I feel more isolated here in Punta Gorda than I ever did on the island. It wouldn't be hard to walk away from everything we have here and head back to Fort Lauderdale.

And then there's Ivan...

I should be happy and grateful. We have a house. We have a house with a complete, leak-free roof over our head. We are alive.

Except this is not living.