The weatherman tonight mentioned two "small disturbances" just off the west coast of Africa. It doesn't matter that they're disorganized or weeks away. Everybody in Florida knows what that means. They're headed straight for us.

I imagine the lines at the gas pumps will be backing up any minute now. And the shelves at the grocery store will be emptied again just as they were finally being restocked after Jeanne. Who says all these hurricanes are bad for Florida's economy? Not the hotel and motel owners. Not the supermarket chains. Certainly not the hardware or lumber stores. Or anyone collecting an insurance payout. Contractors? Right.

Not since Texas in 1886 have four hurricanes made landfall in the same state. I searched online to find evidence of stress related insanity in storm ravaged 1886 Texans, but all I came up with was this, which is kind of crazy in its own way.

Forget all that "It's bigger in Texas" (and by the way, that is a really bad search term to Google) hooey, we're going for the record! Yeehaw!

Blame it on the weather. Hardee County schools, in anticipation of lousy scores and fearing retribution from the No Child Left Behind powers-that be, will ask for some slack because of hurricane season. Pass 'em all, let Bush sort 'em out.

Looking forward to a fun night of television with Survivor and the debate. Can't wait to see who gets voted off the island.

Picks

G, my reluctant reader, seems to finally be over the hump. Or maybe I am. In an unusual turn of events, the last few books I've selected for her have been met with great enthusiasm. She is requesting that I go online at Amazon.com and order the sequels to Sarah, Plain and Tall, and is digging into the first of the Little House books, Little House in the Big Woods, while she waits for her sister to finish with the latest in the Series of Unfortunate Events, Book 11, The Grim Grotto. In the meantime, she has temporarily put aside Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, which she had been reading on her own after having it read aloud last year, in order to get through her newest favorites.

Wow. How did this happen? All the other books I picked were boring and stupid and dumb. I must be on a roll though, because in addition to some successful literature selections, she is also happy with the following curriculum choices:

Spelling Power – The lessons are short, no more than 15 minutes. She is more confident and encouraged because she can spell most of the words correctly and then only needs to focus on the misspelled ones. I purchased the box of activity cards and she enjoys choosing her own activity to complete the lesson.

Rod & Staff English – This was a hefty step up from Easy Grammar. It assumes familiarity with terms and lessons learned in earlier books, and had both girls grumbling at first. We started on grade level, 4 for her, 7 for her sister, and I now understand the recommendation to start one level below grade if you haven’t previously used the series; it’s challenging and rigorous. I’m happy with the all-in-one aspect, which greatly simplified our previous Easy Grammar/Mary Daly’s First Book of Diagramming/Write with the Best combo, and the comprehensive Teacher’s edition which incorporates review questions, reproduces the student’s page and includes answers to the text, tests, and supplemental pages. Her enthusiasm peaked this morning when she received a perfect score on her first chapter test.

Saxon 5/4 Math – Something about those timed drills, she just loves them. After completing the problem set, she likes to go through and check her answers, then lets me know which ones she got wrong and why. We went with the new paperback format which seems a little flimsy, but the consumable drill and test book is worth it.

The Violin Book – I don’t know yet how valid the author’s claims are, that your child should be at a junior concert playing level when the entire series is completed, but G is definitely having fun with it. She excitedly goes through her practice and is trying to teach her older sister. (Oh, yes, we found the violin two days ago -- hurray! It was at the island. She must have brought it out between storms for a little practice.)

What about my older daughter? Doesn’t she have any Picks or Pans? No, not really. She plugs along, completing the assignments she’s supposed to, I'd like to say with nary a complaint but that might be stretching it, and reads everything she can get her hands on. It’s nice to have one like that.

Looks like I might have two now.

Ho hum. Another hurricane.

Riding the storm out takes on a literal meaning when the house begins bucking underneath you, shaking you out of your weekend plans to sleep in. I was up at 5:00 AM to take a shower and blow my hair dry before the power went out. (Remember my renewed commitment to beauty?) The electricity is currently on, but has been intermittent, cutting in and out at least twenty times in the last two and half hours. I have been listening to the weird harmonic effect of the wind blowing a bass vibrato across our eaves. Low E maybe. Rain pelting the window sounding more like hail, followed by a rattling sound as the gusts die down. Something, maybe more siding or a piece of soffit, has blown loose. The local news reported tropical force winds, around 38 mph, in our area three hours prior to the time I was rudely awakened by Jeanne, long before the house began rocking and the chandelier started swinging. We must be up to about 60 mph by now.

We had noticed cracks appear in the joints between the walls and ceiling, and a spot where the front gable’s truss had been pushed inward causing the drywall screws to protrude after Hurricane Charley, so we know this building has been compromised somehow. With the continuing exposure to high winds, I’m wondering how much more this structure can take and half expect it to break loose of its twenty foot high pier foundations and do a Wizard of Oz. On the up side, if I ever need to go looking for my heart’s desire, or my roof, I won’t look any further than my own backyard.

What do the kids do during a hurricane? S camps out on her bedroom floor for fear of being cut to ribbons should her window implode. L watches her PBS kid shows complaining when the broadcast signal is briefly interrupted that the TV has gone all “fluffley.” G sleeps snuggled up with Orlando, the marmalade cat, who’s enjoying a respite from rat catching in the plentiful, large debris piles heaped about our neighborhood.

What does Mom do? She settles in with the best hurricane supplies of all, her books.

Looking through some pictures from a mere three years ago, I was shocked to discover that I looked good. I was blonde. I was thin. I used to wear makeup and style my hair. Feeling sorry for myself I asked the girls, “Am I really that unattractive these days?” “Ummm, not totally, but medium-high,” was the kindest reply I received.

I quit highlighting my hair shortly after my last daughter was born. I decided to become Nature Girl. Since we were planning to move to some remote part of the globe, Nature Girl just couldn’t be getting her roots touched up whenever she pleased, so best to let it all grow out. Besides, wasn’t I always getting all uppity and moralistic about how absurd women were for being slaves to fashion and vanity?

“Your body is perfect the way is,” was the message I conveyed to my girls, mostly in an attempt to discourage them from acquiring tattoos or body piercings in the near future. We scoffed at nail polish, make up, and the girly-girls who wore them as silly, stupid, and a waste of money. “Our Mennonite friends don’t even cut their hair or shave their legs!” I proselytized. “God made you just the way you are, don’t change a thing, babe.”

These days numerous white hairs are sprouting on top of my head, a head with hair color delightfully described by my friend Alex as “mouse-turd brown,” and I am fairly sure no one will ever mistake them for highlights, as I’d initially hoped. I also now have three hurricanes, literally, under my belt. And there is yet another on the horizon. I am loath to throw out food, but the cookies, crackers, and Twinkies really must go. (Honestly, Twinkies, what was I thinking?) Time for some kind of improved diet. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. And flabby.

So, I’m going to be a hypocrite, one with artificial color added, get my hair done, lose some weight, and wear makeup. Maybe then one day there’ll be a picture attached to my profile.

I’ve always been low maintenance, but this is ridiculous.

We survived our first full week of preschool, early mornings, and long, busy days. L loves it. There have been a few tears the last two days during the morning drop-off, but these are balanced out by the annoyance she greets us with when we pick her up ("Why did you come get me now? Can't I stay longer?!")

This coming Monday I was supposed to attend an all-day seminar on the east coast for the local board of realtors and S had a follow-up dental appointment scheduled, but it looks like another hurricane is a-blowing, so everything has been pushed back one month. That's fine with me as I plan to sleep very late this weekend and don't want to be driving all over creation. Maybe I'll take a ride out to the island to collect a few more books for our studies, but that's as busy as I plan to be.

We are actually accomplishing things here! S and G are back on track with their school schedule, except for the violin lessons due to the still missing instrument, and have fine tuned their performance to maximize the quiet time we have before L comes home from preschool. The laundry is caught up, dinner is being cooked several nights a week, and a mass mailing for damaged property is in progress. Chalk that up to the massive amounts of caffeine I have been consuming.

Weird that left to my own devices I am a lazy, lazy person, but give me projects with deadlines or a schedule to follow and I jam.

Sprint is making me crazy

My line is still not buried and the connection keeps cutting out, so until Sprint gets its act together, posts will be sporadic.

Catching the final night of the Republican National Convention and then bearing nearly three days of downtime during Hurricane Frances, my husband and I had plenty of opportunity to discuss our county’s future. I must say I am disturbed to see him exhibit a neo-conservative bend. He agrees with me that things must take a grassroots approach to bring this country back around to the great ideas instituted by our founders, but is unwilling to step in now and make a change "midstream." Changing leadership in wartime, (though how do you legitimately declare war against an abstraction and not a specific enemy or country?) will cause some distraction, but in four years we’ll be changing leaders again anyway. First of all, for this to be midstream assumes that the war on terror will last only eight years. Secondly, the distraction of changing leaders is hardly more than changing the names on the doors and letterhead, and also assumes that there is a huge difference between the self-serving, frat boy candidates and their pre-programmed policies. I think we all know better than that, don’t we? Lewis Lapham’s Theater of War, subtitled In Which the Republic Becomes an Empire, has conveniently been left atop the tank for his morning constitutional.

Classical enthusiasts may enjoy, in horrified, nodding agreement, the parallels to the Roman Empire. We all know what happened there. The motives and foreign policies of our last nine presidents have been directed by, and in the name of, their respective God, who seems to be advising them that crusades and empire building is the way to go. Remember the Crusades? What is the difference between Bush and Ashcroft’s declaration of holy war in the name of God and Democracy and Bin Laden’s jihad in the name of Allah? Lapham references this quote from Evan S. Connell’s Deus lo Volt! Chronicle of the Crusades:

“We hear ominous tidings. We hear of a malevolent race, withdrawn from the communion of our belief, Turks, Persians, Arabs, accursed, estranged from God, that have laid waste by fire and sword to the walls of Constantinople, to the Arm of St. George…. Turks perforate the navels of God’s servants, pull forth and bind their intestines to stakes, lead them about while viscera discolor the earth. They pierce Christians with arrows, flog the suffering. What else can we say? What more shall be said? To whom, therefore, does the task of vengeance fall, if not to you?”

Bush post September 11, or Pope Urban II on the eve of the first Crusade?

Lapham suggests for an honorable, enlightened foreign policy we first ask potential allies:

“…not ‘Are you for us or against us?’ but ‘In what circumstances do we find those of your people not living in the palace? Do they walk upright on two feet in the manner of human beings or do they crouch on their hindquarters like humiliated dogs?’”

Hmmm. Diem, the Shah of Shahs, Somoza, Thieu, Marcos, Noriega, Saddam Hussein…I think he’s got something there.

Squeeze this book in before the election.

Next on my list is to finish Lapham’s Waiting for the Barbarians. (Margaret, I’d like to hear about Gag Rule since I’m on a roll.

Anyway, about the election, tell me I’m wasting my vote, throwing it away, pulling needed votes away from another candidate, you may be right, I don’t care; I’m voting my conscience. My preferred candidate will not win this election but enough votes to third party representatives will hopefully make someone take notice that we’re not all happy with the status quo. Whether it’s the politicians, my fellow Americans, or citizens of the world, somebody needs to see that we’re not all going to go gentle into that good night.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

---- Dylan Thomas

Yeah, yeah, I know it’s about death, but the death of democracy works for me too. Here's a more obvious one:

War Pigs

Generals gathered in their masses
Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerers of death's construction
In the fields the bodies burning
As the war machine keeps turning
Death and hatred to mankind
poisoning their brainwashed minds
Oh Lord yeah

Politicians hide themselves away
They only started the war
Why should they go out to fight
They leave that all to the poor

Time will tell on their power minds
Making war just for fun
Treating people just like pawns in chess
Wait 'til their judgment day comes

Now in darkness world stops turning
As the war machine keeps burning
No more war pigs have the power
Hand of God has struck the hour
Day of judgment God is calling
On their knees, the war pigs crawling
Begging mercy for their sins
Satan laughing spreads his wings
Oh Lord yeah

---- Iommi/Osbourne/Butler/Ward (Black Sabbath)

Did anyone see Letterman last night? While Kerry smarmily tossed out one-liners, Dave seriously and persistently picked away, and Green Day performed “American Idiot.” Take that, critics of the liberal media.

When you're in an accident and your airbags don't deploy is that a good thing, as in we mustn't have been hit too hard, or a bad thing, as in these things don't really work very well, do they? My Excursion will go in the shop Monday for an undetermined length of time, at the end of a very long line of hurricane damaged cars, after someone decided to make an abrupt left turn from the right hand lane directly into my path. Lucky for me there was a Sheriff right behind me who witnessed the event. My driving record remains unblemished, it was 100% the other guy's fault, but even still, I know what people are thinking as I drive around in my oversized, crumpled vehicle with one dangling headlight, "She can't handle that big thing." O ye of little faith, I once whipped into the poorly engineered municipal parking garage at the Fort Lauderdale main library, effortlessly backed into a spot designed for a compact car, and was greeted with applause from the bikers who had been eyeing me warily from the adjacent parking space.

L jumped into my bed this morning to ask if was a school day. She was very disappointed when I explained weekends to her. She told me that on Monday I don't need to drive her to school, she will get up early and ride her tricycle there. "Do you really think you could ride your tricycle over the big bridge all by yourself with all those cars and trucks zooming by?" I asked.

"Well, Daddy will have to fix my bell first."

I'd better get up extra early to be sure she doesn't start out on her own, or hope that the ramp onto I-75 slows her down some.

Later S exhibited her amazing, inherent musical talent when she serenaded us with Lenny Kravitz, Green Day, and old Black Sabbath tunes, picked out on L's Lights 'N Sounds Festival Orchestra ( a toy we most assuredly did not buy.) We really must think about purchasing another piano or at least a keyboard for the poor girl. L is also the only child I've met who taught herself to whistle at the tender of age of three. She accompanied S, whistling along on "Iron Man."

S and I spent the day clothes shopping, my least favorite thing. The mother-daughter time was silly fun and you cannot beat the Old Navy clearance rack; shirts for $1.97, dresses for $3.97. We went a little nuts. She is growing up so quickly.

Monday, after Larie goes to school, after my car goes in the shop, after I get a rental, S and G will begin carschooling while we ride around Punta Gorda and Port Charlotte in search of distressed properties for my brother-in-law and his ready, willing, and able partners to invest in. Carpetbagging, they call it. Lots of potential for commissions. Unfortunately, money doesn't motivate me. I am motivated to find some quiet time and relax with a good book.

Back on track

It occurred to me that there is no difference between pulling the rug out from everyone again or taking advantage of a once in a lifetime opportunity. So what the heck, eh?

Our plan du jour is for G to finish up his two big contracts, let the littlest one go to preschool, put our properties on the market, continue to live in our Punta Gorda rental, and be ready to head Down Under by the end of the school year, sometime around June '05.

Now that that's settled, I feel much better.

Two days in a row we've been able to get our official schoolwork done. There was even time yesterday for the two older girls to drag out our Australian travel guides and every other book we own containing information on Australia and teach their little sister all they know about the place. Then they produced a written test for her and she scored a 95.

Today we finished up a fairly productive day by spreading open the wall map, which is still not yet hung on the wall, and located Vanuatu in preparation for tonight's Survivor season opener. We also had a sympathy dinner of rice and steamed vegetables, although in a very un-Survivor-like twist, I ended up melting cheese in the microwave over the tops of the kids' servings. Watching the survivors melt away week after week always inspires me to try eating tiny servings of rice for a few weeks as a weight loss plan. This bunch is too skinny to begin with. Was anybody else surprised that the natives of Vanuatu look less like Polynesians and more like Aboriginals?

Our friends in Pensacola Beach made it through Ivan with their home still intact. John and Larry remember every birthday and anniversary with a phone call and also give "hurricane calls" anytime a storm threatens one of our areas; we've spoken to them a whole lot this season. We are now watching Hurricane Jeanne with great interest. We are also now quite slaphappy and can only laugh at the thought of yet another storm. Let's just leave the windows boarded up until Christmas!

Where have I been?

Right here, wondering how my posts and I come across in cyberspace after reading these at Poppins Classical Academy and Mental Multivitamin. Morose? Sarcastic? Skeptical?

Good. Honesty is the best policy.

Speaking of pathological liars, well, maybe you weren't, but I am, my ex-sister-in-law sent my brother four emails this past Sunday seeking more child support money. This in spite of a financial arrangement drafted by her own attorney in consideration for my brother's permission to temporarily alter the custody arrangement, thus allowing the children to live in London for two years.

Monday I made a hasty call to my brother to be sure he hadn't been caught scaling the wall at Buckingham Palace.

Whew

It looks like Ivan is heading toward the Panhandle and will not be a problem for us. We are worried about our friends' Pensacola mobile home and hope they will come on down to our place for a few days.

------

We're waffling again. Our Australian residency expires shortly so we are contemplating getting ourselves established down there. Again. Before it's too late this time. Before we get ensconced in a life here in Punta Gorda.

Blame it on Charley and Frances. I think if our formerly pretty little town had been spared we wouldn't have dredged this up again. We were happily planning to take sailing, golf and swimming lessons but the storms have ruined practically all chances for the girls to participate in any kind of extracurricular activities. There's really no other reason for us to stay in this neighborhood. Building an addition on the island is impractical. We need a land base. The thought of moving back to the sprawl and degrading conditions of the Miami/Fort Lauderdale/Palm Beach area is unacceptable.

We also have no health insurance, and socialized medicine looks pretty good to us at this point.

Three years ago, after we sold our Hollywood home, we were all set to go until we stumbled across the island (a.k.a. "The Monkeywrench") and decided that investing short term in such a property would only increase our equity. Besides, if we could achieve our goals without traveling halfway around the world, then all the better for us. Equity did indeed increase, but we have not accomplished the goals we've set for our family.

G and I sat down Sunday and compared our lists to be sure we were still in agreement on the direction our lives should take.

I never thought my life could be
Anything but catastrophe
But suddenly I begin to see
A bit of good luck for me

'Cause I've got a golden ticket
I've got a golden twinkle in my eye

Yes, and like Charlie's, the date to cash in our golden ticket, Australian residency, is rapidly approaching.

Hurricane Charley negated the reasons for staying in Punta Gorda. Returning to the island full time puts us back in the position of having no extracurricular activities.

What to do? Pull the rug out from under everyone again or take advantage of a once in a lifetime opportunity?

Something school related for a change

Last night I sat down and read the parent/student handbook for the private school we investigated yesterday. Typos galore; some simply mistyped, others, like the substitution of "their" for "there" in the school song, just plain eeg-no-rant. Big red flag or a personal pet peeve? Probably both. Then I got to the curriculum list in the self-described non-parochial school booklet where they highlighted their creation science. Uh oh. Definite red flag.

The preschool, a combination of Montessori plus some gentle reading and math instruction, will be just right for L. In addition to the fun looking classroom, competent teacher, happy looking children, and low teacher/student ratio, I was very impressed by the strong smell of Clorox Clean-up.

I had to rethink my plan for the older two. Fortunately, I read they offer a homeschool umbrella option. I can enroll the older girls for a minimal fee, taking care of our legal requirement for the state, continue to use our present curriculum, and the girls will be allowed to participate in the school's sports, science fairs, chess club, debate team, field trips, and (optional) testing.

Now, if the school is still here next week, and we still have a house in town, we're all set!

Oh. My. God.

Landfall...? Looks like Dock 99 1/2, again.

Today I found a great little classical-styled private school, Pre-K through 12th, initially thinking it would be perfect for my littlest one, but becoming more interested for the older two as we toured the campus. Both the older ones were eager to spend the day there tomorrow on a trial run. Then someone mentioned that Ivan appeared to be heading straight for Boca Grande. What to do? I hate to put them in, get their hopes up and then yank them out. Ivan could turn and miss us altogether, but if it hits here as a Category 5, we're done. We'd have to go back to Hollywood or Fort Lauderdale and start from scratch. (Hey, wasn't I just saying I could easily leave everything behind on the west coast? I should shut up.)

After the school visit we dropped by Target, where I wanted to buy some deep plastic bins to transfer our photo albums into, as the cardboard boxes they've been stored in the past few years are collapsing and filthy. Everyone else had the same idea. I ended up with the last five bins, four mismatched lids, three tape rolls, two bags of kitty litter and one bag of pet bedding. (Kinda like "The Twelve Days of Christmas.")

Last time, as we raced across the state barely ahead of Charley, we expected to return and find two vacant lots. We only had time to grab whatever was in arms' reach as we flew out the door. Out of sight, out of mind. This is harder, having a few days to decide what to take and what to say goodbye to.

Anybody else tired of hearing about hurricanes?

Post Script: The link above shows continually updated info and it now looks like the 5:00 PM, 5-Day Forecast Track has it tracking a little farther north...

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.

Checking in

I'm on the east coast today, (I'm not worried about any of my Punta Gorda neighbors reading this and looting my house, all the phones lines are out again) taking care of the girls' dental appointments. The good news is: No cavities!

Frances hit us hardest in the wee morning hours Monday as we caught the back end of her. With only about 50 mph winds, the house was rocking back and forth, like riding a train. We felt a few larger gusts that were similar to what I imagine an earthquake feels like. It was hard to imagine how much worse it would have been had we stayed in the house through Charley's 145 mph winds. Our neighborhood experienced a small tidal surge from the river and was briefly underwater but other than that, just another close call.

Hope Tammy in WPB and Anne in CS are doing well (email me if you need any help, guys.)

Better blog when I don't have a line of people standing over my shoulder waiting to use the only functioning computer...

Random hurricane thoughts

Am I going to have to publish an "After, After" damage photo?

Low carb hurricane supplies = Spam and beef jerky

I have probably gained five pounds after abandoning my low carb diet

The roof may blow off, my belongings can fly away, I just don't want to lose the water again

Showers are lovely, but one day soon, I hope to take a very long, very hot soak in an actual bathtub

------

We are enjoying our last night with Carolyn and family, having a mini pre-hurricane party (we're not stupid enough to have a real hurricane party.) I am actually drinking, much to my husband's delight, and he has just arrived from the east coast bearing a delightful surprise: Indian food and a brand new, flat screen TV, so we can watch Frances's cone in color, in a format larger than our trusty old battery operated B&W 5 inch.

Gotta go...

Frances

I am the eye. I am the calm center in a swirling sea of chaos. I am the self-appointed slapper of hysterical persons. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Crazed relatives up in Boston paying outrageous sums of money to fly Carolyn and the kids back one day early to avoid being caught in a hurricane. What about us? Why aren't they flying me and my kids out of harm's way?

I am the houseboy pushed off the helicopter at the fall of Saigon.

Neighbors planning to jump in their RVs and cars and race back to their old hometowns in New York, and Michigan, never to return. This is the Big One. This is the unnamed Labor Day hurricane of 1935 coming back to finish what it didn't destroy the first time. This one will wipe the entire state of Florida off the map.

SLAP!

Fist fights at the gas station. Nervous, half-joking cracks from people already exhibiting Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, about me emptying the gas station's fuel tanks while I top off my Excursion. (Yup, 13.1 gallons per mile isn't the greatest, but I got a 40 gallon tank, plus a little extra reserve after the empty mark, so there.) East coasters speeding over to our wrecked area, in search of hotel rooms that don't exist, when this storm, of uncertain path, is large enough to cover most of the state anyway.

SLAP!

Panicked friends and relatives throwing money at my husband's crew, desperately trying to get their homes and businesses boarded up, not considering that the crew has property of their own they would like to protect. Sorry folks, it's way too late for that, supposing you could even find the plywood and other supplies in the first place.

Sit tight, people.