may have been among the cast of characters in Elle's dreams last night. Spicy food and a fever can do that to you.
We spent the day in Tampa yesterday visiting the Bodies exhibit at MOSI and then sat in on the dinner show at the Columbia Restaurant.
The Bodies exhibit was fascinating and surreal, mostly because it was nearly impossible to comprehend that these were actual cadavers. We planned to swap off with Elle if the displays proved too gruesome, but she did fine, disbelieving her sisters' answers when she asked if these were real. It was difficult, for all of us, to get past the feeling that these were just mannequins.
Different rooms focused on different systems. Full bodies were set up in various action poses throughout the rooms. No stanchions or other crowd control was used, so you were able to observe them close-up from any side. Parts were highlighted in cases. One area, just off the section on the reproductive systems -- one section my bashful girls studiously avoided looking at -- required a disclaimer as being particularly controversial. Inside a small collection of fetuses, ranging from 10 days to 16 weeks were on display. I heard a few inane comments like, "It's so sad! To think these babies died!" Yeah, I know, how about the other uncountable lives just outside the door arranged for your viewing pleasure, lady?
We were most impressed with displays detailing the musculature of the hands and feet, which is incredibly complex, and one body, completely stripped of every bit of flesh, bone, and organs, that demonstrated the entire circulatory system. Without any supporting structure, you could make out the entire shape of the person, even the distinctly Asian facial features, just by the complex filigree network of arteries and veins, right down to the tiniest capillaries. The work involved in that last one was unfathomable. In fact, I would have to say that the one shortcoming of the exhibit was its lack of information about the processes used in creating the displays. One brief list of the six or so steps was all the attention given. It would have been interesting to see an accompanying exhibit detailing the preservation techniques used. At the end of the exhibit, after the room that had bodies sliced and diced like MRI images, there was a counter with preserved organs available to handle. Sarabelle and I held a brain and heart in our hands, again, unable to accept that these were indeed actual organs. All body fluids having been extracted and replaced with silicone left the organs feeling strangely hard and rubbery, dense, yet pliable, like a model. I whispered a quiet, "Sorry," to the previous owner of the brain, in case there was anything left of their consciousness in that gray matter, and was thankful for the industrial-sized jug of hand sanitizer on the counter.
The exhibit drew a large crowd. We waited about 30 minutes to purchase tickets and then another 30 before our timed admission came up. Many in attendance were medical students and professionals, the rest curious gawkers like ourselves. The whole thing had a bit of a freak show feel to it. P. T. Barnum would have been proud. We discussed the morality of mutilating dead people. Is it acceptable in the interests of science? Is this display a truly scientific endeavor? We felt sad for those persons on display, that no one had bothered to come forward and claim their bodies after death. Where were their families? Why hadn't they come for them?
After taking a tour of some of Tampa's more colorful neighborhoods, the campus of USF, Jorge's alma mater, the campus of the University of Tampa, Hyde Park, and Davis Islands, we ended up in Ybor City for dinner at the Columbia. I had a marvelous hunk of dolphin grilled in citrus juice, garlic, and onions, with sides of rice, yucca, and plantains, and topped it all off with a slice of dulce de leche cheesecake, while the girls and Jorge stuck with beef and flan, in spite of the artery clogging evidence we had observed earlier. The girls had decided while still at at MOSI that they would be having the ropa vieja, inspired, disgustingly enough, by the similarity of the dish in appearance to one of the displays. Poor Elle, who had been feeling a little ill Friday, spiking a night time fever, had a minor relapse during the dinner show. With her weakly curled in my lap, I was most fortunately unable to join the troupe when they invited me up on stage for dance lessons. Ole!
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Tip of the day:
Don't ever take the salon's assignment of the stylist you just overheard planning to sneak out of work early when you spontaneously decide to get your bangs trimmed.
Friday, August 26, 2005
Lactose Intolerance
Has anybody out there read Who Moved My Cheese? I haven't, but it was referred to during the contract class I sat in on this week, supposedly as a motivational tool. The class instructor summarized it for us this way: We are the mice. Mice need cheese to live. What do you do when your cheese is relocated? The instructor then asked us a series of soul-searching questions beginning with:
1) What is your "cheese"? Identify what it is that you need to survive.
Well, right there, I knew this wasn't going to square with her objective. She was talking dollars, i.e. how much money we need to make in real estate. Sorry, honey, but that's never been my cheese. I don't need anything, really; I've already got more than I need. But forced to play along, I dutifully listed my "requirements."
1) Lighten the financial burden on my husband
2) Afford good health insurance
3) Pay someone else to regularly clean my house
Good thing we didn't have to answer aloud. Explaining my answers to the Hummer-driving, designer-labeled, diamond-dripping bleach blonde leading our training would have been futile. She added that you should only be in this business if you are going to go for the gold. "Why go into real estate and be comfortable making only $20,000 or so? I could work at McDonald's for $25,000 and get benefits!"
Hey! Maybe that's what I should be doing! Thanks for the tip. That would meet all my goals. Besides, handing bags of food out a drive-through window sounds like a piece of cake.
My mood quickly changed from mild amusement to heavy sarcasm when she started quoting Benjamin Franklin. Now, Ben's one of my all time favorites, in fact I've been driving around with a copy of Franklin: Writings in the car to enjoy in my spare moments, so hearing her try to channel some of his wisdom was nearly blasphemy.
Here are a few quotes from Poor Richard's Almanack that she must have missed:
Content makes poor men rich; Discontent makes rich men poor.
Better is a little with content than much with contention.
A wise man will desire no more than what he may get justly, use soberly, distribute cheerfully, and leave contentedly.
Content is the Philosopher's Stone, that turns all it touches into gold.
Content and riches seldom meet together,
Riches take thou, contentment I had rather.
Who is rich? He that rejoices in his portion.
Sure, Franklin wrote The Way to Wealth, but he was still appalled when his wife served him breakfast one morning in a silver porringer rather than his regular cheap, though still serviceable china. Maybe she overlooked his autobiography and his Art of Virtue writings as well. It is certainly no coincidence, considering the title of my post, that he authored the material in this book. Don't mess with Ben.
My new boss has promised me crumbs, deals too small for him to bother with. When your boss does nearly 70 million in sales each year, crumbs are plenty.
1) What is your "cheese"? Identify what it is that you need to survive.
Well, right there, I knew this wasn't going to square with her objective. She was talking dollars, i.e. how much money we need to make in real estate. Sorry, honey, but that's never been my cheese. I don't need anything, really; I've already got more than I need. But forced to play along, I dutifully listed my "requirements."
1) Lighten the financial burden on my husband
2) Afford good health insurance
3) Pay someone else to regularly clean my house
Good thing we didn't have to answer aloud. Explaining my answers to the Hummer-driving, designer-labeled, diamond-dripping bleach blonde leading our training would have been futile. She added that you should only be in this business if you are going to go for the gold. "Why go into real estate and be comfortable making only $20,000 or so? I could work at McDonald's for $25,000 and get benefits!"
Hey! Maybe that's what I should be doing! Thanks for the tip. That would meet all my goals. Besides, handing bags of food out a drive-through window sounds like a piece of cake.
My mood quickly changed from mild amusement to heavy sarcasm when she started quoting Benjamin Franklin. Now, Ben's one of my all time favorites, in fact I've been driving around with a copy of Franklin: Writings in the car to enjoy in my spare moments, so hearing her try to channel some of his wisdom was nearly blasphemy.
Here are a few quotes from Poor Richard's Almanack that she must have missed:
Content makes poor men rich; Discontent makes rich men poor.
Better is a little with content than much with contention.
A wise man will desire no more than what he may get justly, use soberly, distribute cheerfully, and leave contentedly.
Content is the Philosopher's Stone, that turns all it touches into gold.
Content and riches seldom meet together,
Riches take thou, contentment I had rather.
Who is rich? He that rejoices in his portion.
Sure, Franklin wrote The Way to Wealth, but he was still appalled when his wife served him breakfast one morning in a silver porringer rather than his regular cheap, though still serviceable china. Maybe she overlooked his autobiography and his Art of Virtue writings as well. It is certainly no coincidence, considering the title of my post, that he authored the material in this book. Don't mess with Ben.
My new boss has promised me crumbs, deals too small for him to bother with. When your boss does nearly 70 million in sales each year, crumbs are plenty.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Checking in
As of today, we have a teenager in the house! So far, so good. She is such a wonderful, bright, cheery, level-headed, sweet girl.
I've been toying with the idea of placing her into high school, based on: her high test scores; the suggestion by her last teacher, in third grade, to skip her a grade; the fact that middle school seems like a waste of time; the firmly established cliques and cock-of-the-walk, rule-the-school eighth grade attitude versus freshman year when everyone basically starts from square one; the fact that the high school is right down the street from where I'll be working, and hopefully from where we will be living one day soon if we ever iron out the contract wrinkles, and nobody seems to know where the middle school is; and at least high school offers swim and debate teams. But she's always been one of the youngest in her classes and jumping her ahead might do more harm than good. Hard to tell.
What do you consider maturity to be?
My mother has mistaken exposure for maturity. She doesn't feel high school would be a good match for Sarabelle because she believes, after comparing the two for the past couple weeks, that she is as not as socialized as her younger cousin. My daughter sadly expressed her observation after returning from her trip that she and her younger cousin have grown apart. She noticed many little things like her cousin's language; lack of interest in and mocking of my girls' interest in natural phenomena, books, and music; and her cousin's rhinestone lip-covered underpants and other logo emblazoned semi-sleazy outfits. The fact that my daughter can notice these changes and see them as signposts to a path other than the one she would prefer her dearest cousin to be on indicates some measure of maturity to me. She is as pop culturally savvy as the next kid, she's just not as base. Innocent, but not naive. She's a junior elitist. Hurray for that.
So for now, we're going to keep homeschooling her. She's fairly self-motivated and can ride with her Dad, getting her math and Latin done enroute and at the office. History may just be watching a Teaching Company lecture on DVD in the evening and making our reading selections bedtime read-alouds instead.
Besides that, I'd hate to feel like I was being kicked out of the club.
Gracie on the other hand, will be attending the charter school with her little sister. They're both very excited. The teachers agreed that Elle was such a fine representative of her family, they would welcome any siblings. Gracie will be one of three fifth graders in the school and the only girl in the class. Of the other two fifth graders, one doesn't even show up until October because he's on the flexi-school program, dividing his time between here and his other island home on Nantucket. The teacher-student ratio is excellent. The caliber of teachers is good too. One teacher is a snowbird from Philips Exeter. Did I mention this is free?
I love Elle's teacher. He's funny and great with the kids. Best of all, by the end of the day, Elle is wiped out. Yes, my never-napper conks out in the car on the ride home, and has slept through until the next morning on three occasions. Amazing.
The kids think Mom's getting a job might very well be a good thing. Last night when they arrived home after their two week absence, they were awestruck to find a clean house, clean laundry, homecooked dinner on the table, and Mom, dressed up with make-up on and cheerful. This after a full day of contract classes and errands. Elle paid me a compliment telling me I looked like, "an office lady."
Here it is the end of August, just over a year since Charley and thirteen years to the day after Andrew, and we are already up to "K" for Katrina. I'm hoping to catch up with Maitresse this weekend if the weather doesn't change our plans.
Hope all is well with you and yours. I'll be keeping up with your blogs, maybe not commenting as much as I'd like, but still following along. I don't know how regular posting will be here until I find my groove.
I've been toying with the idea of placing her into high school, based on: her high test scores; the suggestion by her last teacher, in third grade, to skip her a grade; the fact that middle school seems like a waste of time; the firmly established cliques and cock-of-the-walk, rule-the-school eighth grade attitude versus freshman year when everyone basically starts from square one; the fact that the high school is right down the street from where I'll be working, and hopefully from where we will be living one day soon if we ever iron out the contract wrinkles, and nobody seems to know where the middle school is; and at least high school offers swim and debate teams. But she's always been one of the youngest in her classes and jumping her ahead might do more harm than good. Hard to tell.
What do you consider maturity to be?
My mother has mistaken exposure for maturity. She doesn't feel high school would be a good match for Sarabelle because she believes, after comparing the two for the past couple weeks, that she is as not as socialized as her younger cousin. My daughter sadly expressed her observation after returning from her trip that she and her younger cousin have grown apart. She noticed many little things like her cousin's language; lack of interest in and mocking of my girls' interest in natural phenomena, books, and music; and her cousin's rhinestone lip-covered underpants and other logo emblazoned semi-sleazy outfits. The fact that my daughter can notice these changes and see them as signposts to a path other than the one she would prefer her dearest cousin to be on indicates some measure of maturity to me. She is as pop culturally savvy as the next kid, she's just not as base. Innocent, but not naive. She's a junior elitist. Hurray for that.
So for now, we're going to keep homeschooling her. She's fairly self-motivated and can ride with her Dad, getting her math and Latin done enroute and at the office. History may just be watching a Teaching Company lecture on DVD in the evening and making our reading selections bedtime read-alouds instead.
Besides that, I'd hate to feel like I was being kicked out of the club.
Gracie on the other hand, will be attending the charter school with her little sister. They're both very excited. The teachers agreed that Elle was such a fine representative of her family, they would welcome any siblings. Gracie will be one of three fifth graders in the school and the only girl in the class. Of the other two fifth graders, one doesn't even show up until October because he's on the flexi-school program, dividing his time between here and his other island home on Nantucket. The teacher-student ratio is excellent. The caliber of teachers is good too. One teacher is a snowbird from Philips Exeter. Did I mention this is free?
I love Elle's teacher. He's funny and great with the kids. Best of all, by the end of the day, Elle is wiped out. Yes, my never-napper conks out in the car on the ride home, and has slept through until the next morning on three occasions. Amazing.
The kids think Mom's getting a job might very well be a good thing. Last night when they arrived home after their two week absence, they were awestruck to find a clean house, clean laundry, homecooked dinner on the table, and Mom, dressed up with make-up on and cheerful. This after a full day of contract classes and errands. Elle paid me a compliment telling me I looked like, "an office lady."
Here it is the end of August, just over a year since Charley and thirteen years to the day after Andrew, and we are already up to "K" for Katrina. I'm hoping to catch up with Maitresse this weekend if the weather doesn't change our plans.
Hope all is well with you and yours. I'll be keeping up with your blogs, maybe not commenting as much as I'd like, but still following along. I don't know how regular posting will be here until I find my groove.
Friday, August 19, 2005
This end up
My whole world has just been turned upside down.
My dear husband, who has been known to volunteer me for various projects and suggest new occupations for my unlimited free time, has done it again.
First, remember when he decided to ask Broker Buddy to hang his license in Buddy's office to facilitate getting Elle into the public, yet very private, charter, and it ended up being my license that was moved? That was okay, I could handle shuttling people over and showing a few listings on our island. Sarabelle and Gracie are old enough and responsible enough to be left alone for the thirty minutes or so it takes me to get back and forth from the marina. They're capable and trustworthy enough to complete assignments on their own. We have good neighbors nearby in the event of an emergency. No problem.
Fast forward to tonight. Jorge met with Broker Buddy to review Orange House terms. Not only does it look like he will buy it from us, Jorge will get the contract to complete the renovation. It looks like all the dominoes of the other deals will be falling into place and we will be moving into the Just Right house. So far, so good. Then, somehow, Jorge recommended me for the position of personal assistant to Broker Buddy, lead partner of the hugely successful company, a position which until this evening did not exist. Buddy decides I am exactly what he needs. I can set my hours around Elle's school day. Not only will I be a salaried employee (probably with a nice benefits package), I will be allowed to keep my license active and make commission on the deals too small for Buddy to mess with, the ones he'll "throw my way." I will have an assistant.
It's wonderful that my husband thinks so highly of me and my job skills, especially since I haven't really been employed for over thirteen years, but this is crazy.
I'm excited. I'm elated. I'm heartbroken. I'm terrified.
The girls will have to go back to school. Gracie might be able to get into the charter for fifth grade, the highest grade in the school, in fact with Broker Buddy behind us I'm banking on it, but it looks like Sarabelle will be heading off to middle school...
My dear husband, who has been known to volunteer me for various projects and suggest new occupations for my unlimited free time, has done it again.
First, remember when he decided to ask Broker Buddy to hang his license in Buddy's office to facilitate getting Elle into the public, yet very private, charter, and it ended up being my license that was moved? That was okay, I could handle shuttling people over and showing a few listings on our island. Sarabelle and Gracie are old enough and responsible enough to be left alone for the thirty minutes or so it takes me to get back and forth from the marina. They're capable and trustworthy enough to complete assignments on their own. We have good neighbors nearby in the event of an emergency. No problem.
Fast forward to tonight. Jorge met with Broker Buddy to review Orange House terms. Not only does it look like he will buy it from us, Jorge will get the contract to complete the renovation. It looks like all the dominoes of the other deals will be falling into place and we will be moving into the Just Right house. So far, so good. Then, somehow, Jorge recommended me for the position of personal assistant to Broker Buddy, lead partner of the hugely successful company, a position which until this evening did not exist. Buddy decides I am exactly what he needs. I can set my hours around Elle's school day. Not only will I be a salaried employee (probably with a nice benefits package), I will be allowed to keep my license active and make commission on the deals too small for Buddy to mess with, the ones he'll "throw my way." I will have an assistant.
It's wonderful that my husband thinks so highly of me and my job skills, especially since I haven't really been employed for over thirteen years, but this is crazy.
I'm excited. I'm elated. I'm heartbroken. I'm terrified.
The girls will have to go back to school. Gracie might be able to get into the charter for fifth grade, the highest grade in the school, in fact with Broker Buddy behind us I'm banking on it, but it looks like Sarabelle will be heading off to middle school...
Another mixed bag
Fascinating topics on Science Friday today (thanks for the kids' link reminder, Concierge): 1) "Rewilding," or reintroducing animal species similar to those long gone from their original habitats. It sounds kind of sketchy to me...; and 2) "Micro-Oxen" about using living organisms to carry and deliver nanotechnologies. No one is sure where this work may lead, but it's a breathtaking combination of microbiology, chemistry, and engineering.
Oh, here's another scientific breakthrough: My brother visited a booth at the SIGGRAPH 2005 convention he attended in Los Angeles a few weeks back. He put on some sort of earphone set. The display operator then maneuvered a joystick which caused my brother to physically move in the direction the operator designated. Freaky, eh?
And totally off topic, I'm just bursting with disconnected thoughts today, is anybody else as excited as I am that the new season of Survivor is taking place in Guatemala among the Mayan ruins? This was the season for me. Jungle living, pure and simple, with the remains of a fabulous ancient civilization as the backdrop. Jorge and I had a farm down in the foothills of Belize's Maya Mountains for a few years, complete with exotic ruins including an ancient well and several burial mounds, so I would have been perfectly suited for this one. And no need to be sporting a bikini.
By the publicity photos, it looks as if they might be at Tikal, a site I never got to visit, not for fear of the botfly that lays its eggs under your skin, or the deadly fer-de-lance, known locally as the yellow jaw, but for the occasional tourist kidnapping and murder.
Back in the late 80s, Jorge and I made a weekend border crossing from Belize into Guatemala for market day. The exchange rate was too good to pass up. Our enthusiasm was quickly dimmed as we strolled past occupied machine gun nests and found ourselves, especially me, the only blonde for maybe a hundred miles and wearing shorts, scrutinized by everyone in the town. Not a smiley face in sight. Down the main street, vendors had set up little displays, similar to portable voting booths, where, for a quarter, you could plink away with a pellet gun at various homemade targets. The first one we stopped at had an American flag as the backdrop with and array of Barbie dolls waiting to be picked off. Hasta la vista, baby.
Excited by the exhibition in Chicago, Body Worlds, first brought to my attention via Mental Multivitamin, but disappointed by my inability to attend, I was overjoyed when my husband informed me about this exhibit just opened in Tampa at the Museum of Science and Industry (MOSI.) M-mv was also able to point me in the direction of this article detailing the controversy surrounding the exhibit. (Thanks, M-mv!) I haven't heard from Gracie on the subject yet, but Sarabelle and I are eager to attend once they return from New Jersey.
Oh, here's another scientific breakthrough: My brother visited a booth at the SIGGRAPH 2005 convention he attended in Los Angeles a few weeks back. He put on some sort of earphone set. The display operator then maneuvered a joystick which caused my brother to physically move in the direction the operator designated. Freaky, eh?
And totally off topic, I'm just bursting with disconnected thoughts today, is anybody else as excited as I am that the new season of Survivor is taking place in Guatemala among the Mayan ruins? This was the season for me. Jungle living, pure and simple, with the remains of a fabulous ancient civilization as the backdrop. Jorge and I had a farm down in the foothills of Belize's Maya Mountains for a few years, complete with exotic ruins including an ancient well and several burial mounds, so I would have been perfectly suited for this one. And no need to be sporting a bikini.
By the publicity photos, it looks as if they might be at Tikal, a site I never got to visit, not for fear of the botfly that lays its eggs under your skin, or the deadly fer-de-lance, known locally as the yellow jaw, but for the occasional tourist kidnapping and murder.
Back in the late 80s, Jorge and I made a weekend border crossing from Belize into Guatemala for market day. The exchange rate was too good to pass up. Our enthusiasm was quickly dimmed as we strolled past occupied machine gun nests and found ourselves, especially me, the only blonde for maybe a hundred miles and wearing shorts, scrutinized by everyone in the town. Not a smiley face in sight. Down the main street, vendors had set up little displays, similar to portable voting booths, where, for a quarter, you could plink away with a pellet gun at various homemade targets. The first one we stopped at had an American flag as the backdrop with and array of Barbie dolls waiting to be picked off. Hasta la vista, baby.
Excited by the exhibition in Chicago, Body Worlds, first brought to my attention via Mental Multivitamin, but disappointed by my inability to attend, I was overjoyed when my husband informed me about this exhibit just opened in Tampa at the Museum of Science and Industry (MOSI.) M-mv was also able to point me in the direction of this article detailing the controversy surrounding the exhibit. (Thanks, M-mv!) I haven't heard from Gracie on the subject yet, but Sarabelle and I are eager to attend once they return from New Jersey.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Odds and ends
For those of us that enjoy language and obscure terms, here is the link to the broadcast on NPR this morning about Susan Kelz Sperling's book, Poplollies and Bellibones: A Celebration of Lost Words.
Totally unrelated to anything: Are we overthinking things? Would humans be better off if we had not evolved into cognizant creatures? Witness bees and ants. They get along, they work hard, they have a purpose, and live a fairly peaceful, structured existence. Do you think bees are happy?
Have a Not Back to School tradition? Kim at Relaxed Homeschool would like to hear about it. We haven't done such a thing yet, but I think this will be the year to devise some sort of "official" kick-off for the year. Since we really didn't finish all of modern history from last year -- we made it to the end of WWII, close enough for me. Most major conflicts after that have been recent topics of discussion in our home -- and the girls are on their "official" summer vacation, I'd like to formally mark the transition from one year to another. Thinking cap on.
Today has been spent mostly in the shade of the Fust library's loggia. I am a wi-fi whore, I'll admit it. (I hear the new Fort Myers airport terminal will be wireless. Just in case I'm ever down that way...) There was a tiny baby lizard running around that was swallowed completely by a larger full-grown lizard. But he escaped. Then he was caught again, around the middle this time, and after his second escape from the jaws of death, I ran interference for him, tampering with the survival of the fittest, natural selection law of the jungle. Good thing there's no one else out here today.
And this interesting little tidbit (to me, anyway, since I'm on a reptile kick): It's not just the non-native iguanas that are a problem anymore, now apparently we've got Nile Monitor Lizards invading Southwest Florida. I just heard about it this morning on the radio and could not find a more recent link, but I love the quote in the caption.
More stream-of-consciousness coming your way: This is a cool dictionary search tool. OneLook is quite possibly all you need.
Batteries are low. I think I'll go peruse the shelves a bit. Maybe something on tape...
Totally unrelated to anything: Are we overthinking things? Would humans be better off if we had not evolved into cognizant creatures? Witness bees and ants. They get along, they work hard, they have a purpose, and live a fairly peaceful, structured existence. Do you think bees are happy?
Have a Not Back to School tradition? Kim at Relaxed Homeschool would like to hear about it. We haven't done such a thing yet, but I think this will be the year to devise some sort of "official" kick-off for the year. Since we really didn't finish all of modern history from last year -- we made it to the end of WWII, close enough for me. Most major conflicts after that have been recent topics of discussion in our home -- and the girls are on their "official" summer vacation, I'd like to formally mark the transition from one year to another. Thinking cap on.
Today has been spent mostly in the shade of the Fust library's loggia. I am a wi-fi whore, I'll admit it. (I hear the new Fort Myers airport terminal will be wireless. Just in case I'm ever down that way...) There was a tiny baby lizard running around that was swallowed completely by a larger full-grown lizard. But he escaped. Then he was caught again, around the middle this time, and after his second escape from the jaws of death, I ran interference for him, tampering with the survival of the fittest, natural selection law of the jungle. Good thing there's no one else out here today.
And this interesting little tidbit (to me, anyway, since I'm on a reptile kick): It's not just the non-native iguanas that are a problem anymore, now apparently we've got Nile Monitor Lizards invading Southwest Florida. I just heard about it this morning on the radio and could not find a more recent link, but I love the quote in the caption.
More stream-of-consciousness coming your way: This is a cool dictionary search tool. OneLook is quite possibly all you need.
Batteries are low. I think I'll go peruse the shelves a bit. Maybe something on tape...
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Wash, rinse, repeat
Tuesday already, huh? My so-called invigorating shampoo is just plain not working. I'm pooped. I drop Elle off at school, zip around town doing minor, piddly errands, and before I know it, it's time to go pick her back up. Whew. Exhausting stuff. What will I do when I have all three again? Car schooling seems to be my best option until we are settled in.
Oh, yeah, about settling in: We made an offer. Another one. Gluttons for punishment, we are. They accepted, though not without the required additional bizarre twists, and we are on our way to living in a real house again. One that we own! One that's big enough! Maybe. If that contingency manages to work itself out, and poor Jorge can scrape up the cash in time.
In the meantime, I'm holding my breath and driving past the house every chance I get, though not simultaneously, because, well, that would be silly. And dangerous.
Oh, yeah, about settling in: We made an offer. Another one. Gluttons for punishment, we are. They accepted, though not without the required additional bizarre twists, and we are on our way to living in a real house again. One that we own! One that's big enough! Maybe. If that contingency manages to work itself out, and poor Jorge can scrape up the cash in time.
In the meantime, I'm holding my breath and driving past the house every chance I get, though not simultaneously, because, well, that would be silly. And dangerous.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
One year later our neighborhood is mostly back together again. There is still one demolished and abandoned house on our street (in the center of the photo) but on the whole, everybody's doing better.
Home again, home again
I think I'm in a position to tell you what's been transpiring here lately. In other words, I hope the decision has been made and all this is behind us, but as I type, Jorge is on his way over to the real estate office, supposedly to deliver some fresh Florida lobsters to our new best friend and broker of the company I'm now working for, and quash the deal that's been haunting us for the past week or so. With a forty minute drive though, he'll have plenty of time to second guess the situation and possibly change his mind...
Broker Buddy is determined to move us on up to a better spot and find us a house, not that we need another one, but he's all for getting us out on Boca, the one place we decided was worth bypassing Australia for, as soon as possible. While I was up north, he tipped Jorge off to a property that was about to come on the market. Jorge liked it, was pretty sure I would, and on my way home from the airport I was taken to see it. Lifestyle-wise it's a perfect fit with plenty of room, an isolated, safe neighborhood, large lot, and in immaculate, move-in condition. He's even got a buyer lined up for the orange house. This new house plus our island property, could, theoretically, be swapped in a few years for a nice place on Boca. Finance-wise it's mostly a lateral move as either this house or the orange house will appreciate at about the same rate, but this house has much higher taxes and we lose the waterfront. And then there's all the scrambling and stress involved in shuffling money around in such a short period.
We made an offer based on the "magic number," the dollar amount we felt the sellers would actually sell for, and splitting title insurance cost as the sellers indicated they were willing to do.
They countered full price.
We offered a higher amount, with which offering to pay all of the title insurance, brought us very close to their full price, and prepared to fire sale a vacant lot we own in order to move quickly and secure the deal.
No response. Offer expired.
Meanwhile, the sellers are trying to put together their own complicated, time-is-of-the-essence deal and we had assumed they were willing to go ahead and put it on the market, in spite of our fair, expedient offer, figuring they might end up with more money in the long run. Whatever. We resign ourselves to moving forward with our orange house plan.
The next day sellers agree to work with us. New offer, put together by broker who is working for the transaction, contains a contingency that their complicated deal must close first. Whoa. So we give away our lot, dump the orange house to his eager buyer losing our valuable water connection to the island, sellers' deal doesn't close and we get the boot? I don't think so. Broker buddy's dominoes are all lined up, but there's a huge gap between our domino and the next one.
On paper it's simple: Keep what we got. Emotionally it's difficult: The best neighborhood in the area, loads of closet space, two-car garage, a laundry room, no renovations to do...
Update: Lobsters are delivered and Broker Buddy has sweetened the deal, suggesting he'll buy Orange House for his assistant as a company investment and lease it back to her, allowing us to keep our boat slip. Hmmmmm.
Broker Buddy is determined to move us on up to a better spot and find us a house, not that we need another one, but he's all for getting us out on Boca, the one place we decided was worth bypassing Australia for, as soon as possible. While I was up north, he tipped Jorge off to a property that was about to come on the market. Jorge liked it, was pretty sure I would, and on my way home from the airport I was taken to see it. Lifestyle-wise it's a perfect fit with plenty of room, an isolated, safe neighborhood, large lot, and in immaculate, move-in condition. He's even got a buyer lined up for the orange house. This new house plus our island property, could, theoretically, be swapped in a few years for a nice place on Boca. Finance-wise it's mostly a lateral move as either this house or the orange house will appreciate at about the same rate, but this house has much higher taxes and we lose the waterfront. And then there's all the scrambling and stress involved in shuffling money around in such a short period.
We made an offer based on the "magic number," the dollar amount we felt the sellers would actually sell for, and splitting title insurance cost as the sellers indicated they were willing to do.
They countered full price.
We offered a higher amount, with which offering to pay all of the title insurance, brought us very close to their full price, and prepared to fire sale a vacant lot we own in order to move quickly and secure the deal.
No response. Offer expired.
Meanwhile, the sellers are trying to put together their own complicated, time-is-of-the-essence deal and we had assumed they were willing to go ahead and put it on the market, in spite of our fair, expedient offer, figuring they might end up with more money in the long run. Whatever. We resign ourselves to moving forward with our orange house plan.
The next day sellers agree to work with us. New offer, put together by broker who is working for the transaction, contains a contingency that their complicated deal must close first. Whoa. So we give away our lot, dump the orange house to his eager buyer losing our valuable water connection to the island, sellers' deal doesn't close and we get the boot? I don't think so. Broker buddy's dominoes are all lined up, but there's a huge gap between our domino and the next one.
On paper it's simple: Keep what we got. Emotionally it's difficult: The best neighborhood in the area, loads of closet space, two-car garage, a laundry room, no renovations to do...
Update: Lobsters are delivered and Broker Buddy has sweetened the deal, suggesting he'll buy Orange House for his assistant as a company investment and lease it back to her, allowing us to keep our boat slip. Hmmmmm.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Yoo Nork
That's what Elle kept calling it.
The three girls and I made it to the Whitney and as predicted, the kids were enthralled with Calder's circus. We looked in the gift shop but, alas, they did not have the video I remember seeing years ago.
MOMA was our next stop. The girls excitedly recognized several works including Van Gogh's The Starry Night, Rousseau's The Sleeping Gypsy, Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon (most embarrassingly because their father has an especially hideous tie with that image on it); and images of Warhol's soup cans, ghostly figures of Munch, Matisse's goldfish, Pollock's splatters, Mondrian's boxes, and Dali's melting clocks. The sculptures were fantastic and as difficult as it was at first to accept Oppenheim's Object -- I mean, c'mon, a furry teacup, saucer and spoon? -- or Oldenburg's Giant Soft Fan as art, it made us realize how shockingly radical and groundbreaking the Magrittes and the Chagalls and all those other artists must have seemed back in the late 19th and early 20th century. Lunch at the museum's cafe 2 was a real treat. I had the Bruschetta Three Ways: Prosciutto with figs; ricotta with roasted red pepper; and tomato salad atop toast perfectly drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Mmmmmm. View the chronologically arranged painting and sculpture highlights online.
Afterward we took a tour through Central Park. No horses for us. Once it hits around 90 degrees, the horses are relieved of duty. That's okay, because the girls' grandmother, Gabby, would have been horrified anyway. She thinks it appalling labor for the poor animals. So instead we had a young, extremely healthy Polish guy haul our butts around in a bike cart. His narrative was amusing for his inability to keep his cardinal and ordinal numbers separate and mainly for its inaccuracy. The date 1853 charmingly became "eighteen fifty-third," and so on, and did you know one of the Mansons killed John Lennon?
That afternoon my parents had arrived in New Jersey, so the next day only Sarabelle and Gracie accompanied me back into the city for another museum tour. Our cab cruised through town neck and neck with the General Lee, continually blaring its "Dixie" horn, in town to promote the opening of The Dukes of Hazzard that day. New Yorkers are just way too cool. They hardly gave it a glance. Imagine the General Lee driving around here... Yeehaw, baby!
We saw the Met, well, only as much Met as you can see in about six hours. Okay, so we only scratched the surface, but we did get to see a good part of the Egyptian and Greek exhibits and some of the medieval displays including the armor collection. In the gift shop, I didn't even have to trick them into their purchases. They picked out miniature metal Roman soldiers, and begged me to buy this edition of Usborne's Greek Gazette, like I really needed to be persuaded. I'm definitely considering picking up a few of their other publications in that vein. They also thought the Fandex Mythology would be a cool addition to our studies and I wholeheartedly agreed, so that was added to our stash.
On the cab ride to Penn Station our cabbie nearly became a victim of road rage when an irate truck driver menacingly leaped out of his vehicle and charged us, after cutting us off intentionally, twice, for some imagined slight. I suppose this happens all the time. Our driver quietly mumbled, "Same to you," with his Indian/Pakistani inflected English and then apologized profusely to us for his subtle emotional outburst. And then ol' General Lee showed up again to escort us all the way back through rush hour traffic. "I wish I was in the land of cotton..."? Nah, I still love New York.
Another notable sidetrip on our mini-vacation, not by any stretch of the imagination a highlight, but still something to see, was a trip to the Jersey Shore. Four hours in traffic, $50.00 to park two cars, $6.50 per adult and $3.00 per child just to sit on the packed, filthy sand, and garish carnival attractions as far as the eye can see. Now I know why everyone moves to Florida. I know, I know, "If you don't have anything nice to say..." Well, there was one positive part of that whole experience: Fried Oreos.
Contrast that with this visit on the way home after the shore debacle: Lake Hopatcong, a five minute walk down the hill and across the street from my brother's place, no admission charge, pretty, clean, white sandy beach. What was it Dorothy said? Something about never having to look any further than your own backyard?
The three girls and I made it to the Whitney and as predicted, the kids were enthralled with Calder's circus. We looked in the gift shop but, alas, they did not have the video I remember seeing years ago.
MOMA was our next stop. The girls excitedly recognized several works including Van Gogh's The Starry Night, Rousseau's The Sleeping Gypsy, Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon (most embarrassingly because their father has an especially hideous tie with that image on it); and images of Warhol's soup cans, ghostly figures of Munch, Matisse's goldfish, Pollock's splatters, Mondrian's boxes, and Dali's melting clocks. The sculptures were fantastic and as difficult as it was at first to accept Oppenheim's Object -- I mean, c'mon, a furry teacup, saucer and spoon? -- or Oldenburg's Giant Soft Fan as art, it made us realize how shockingly radical and groundbreaking the Magrittes and the Chagalls and all those other artists must have seemed back in the late 19th and early 20th century. Lunch at the museum's cafe 2 was a real treat. I had the Bruschetta Three Ways: Prosciutto with figs; ricotta with roasted red pepper; and tomato salad atop toast perfectly drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Mmmmmm. View the chronologically arranged painting and sculpture highlights online.
Afterward we took a tour through Central Park. No horses for us. Once it hits around 90 degrees, the horses are relieved of duty. That's okay, because the girls' grandmother, Gabby, would have been horrified anyway. She thinks it appalling labor for the poor animals. So instead we had a young, extremely healthy Polish guy haul our butts around in a bike cart. His narrative was amusing for his inability to keep his cardinal and ordinal numbers separate and mainly for its inaccuracy. The date 1853 charmingly became "eighteen fifty-third," and so on, and did you know one of the Mansons killed John Lennon?
That afternoon my parents had arrived in New Jersey, so the next day only Sarabelle and Gracie accompanied me back into the city for another museum tour. Our cab cruised through town neck and neck with the General Lee, continually blaring its "Dixie" horn, in town to promote the opening of The Dukes of Hazzard that day. New Yorkers are just way too cool. They hardly gave it a glance. Imagine the General Lee driving around here... Yeehaw, baby!
We saw the Met, well, only as much Met as you can see in about six hours. Okay, so we only scratched the surface, but we did get to see a good part of the Egyptian and Greek exhibits and some of the medieval displays including the armor collection. In the gift shop, I didn't even have to trick them into their purchases. They picked out miniature metal Roman soldiers, and begged me to buy this edition of Usborne's Greek Gazette, like I really needed to be persuaded. I'm definitely considering picking up a few of their other publications in that vein. They also thought the Fandex Mythology would be a cool addition to our studies and I wholeheartedly agreed, so that was added to our stash.
On the cab ride to Penn Station our cabbie nearly became a victim of road rage when an irate truck driver menacingly leaped out of his vehicle and charged us, after cutting us off intentionally, twice, for some imagined slight. I suppose this happens all the time. Our driver quietly mumbled, "Same to you," with his Indian/Pakistani inflected English and then apologized profusely to us for his subtle emotional outburst. And then ol' General Lee showed up again to escort us all the way back through rush hour traffic. "I wish I was in the land of cotton..."? Nah, I still love New York.
Another notable sidetrip on our mini-vacation, not by any stretch of the imagination a highlight, but still something to see, was a trip to the Jersey Shore. Four hours in traffic, $50.00 to park two cars, $6.50 per adult and $3.00 per child just to sit on the packed, filthy sand, and garish carnival attractions as far as the eye can see. Now I know why everyone moves to Florida. I know, I know, "If you don't have anything nice to say..." Well, there was one positive part of that whole experience: Fried Oreos.
Contrast that with this visit on the way home after the shore debacle: Lake Hopatcong, a five minute walk down the hill and across the street from my brother's place, no admission charge, pretty, clean, white sandy beach. What was it Dorothy said? Something about never having to look any further than your own backyard?
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Vanity
I spent the better part of this afternoon snapping headshots of myself. Hundreds of them. Good thing I have a digital camera. This, after spending, or throwing away, $5.88 for the Walmart Photo Studio's special of the month. Now I have about thirty-five copies of a mediocre picture of me due to arrive in the mail one of these days.
It is unfortunate that the company I've gone to work for wants my photo on my business card. Ever since fourth grade when a ricocheting softball, and years later an angry (ex)husband shattered my nose and rearranged my face, gravity has been doing unkind things to my once fairly symmetrical appearance.
One friend can read my mood merely by observing the slant of my sunglasses.
That's why you haven't seen any shots of yours truly here. The last posed photo I had that turned out well, in my opinion, was surprisingly enough on my previous drivers' license. I looked hot. Need to see some I.D.? No problem! Too bad I noticed the sign at the DMV stating that renewals could be done online after I had handed it in and taken a new photo.
It is unfortunate that the company I've gone to work for wants my photo on my business card. Ever since fourth grade when a ricocheting softball, and years later an angry (ex)husband shattered my nose and rearranged my face, gravity has been doing unkind things to my once fairly symmetrical appearance.
One friend can read my mood merely by observing the slant of my sunglasses.
That's why you haven't seen any shots of yours truly here. The last posed photo I had that turned out well, in my opinion, was surprisingly enough on my previous drivers' license. I looked hot. Need to see some I.D.? No problem! Too bad I noticed the sign at the DMV stating that renewals could be done online after I had handed it in and taken a new photo.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Back In Black
Elle started Kindergarten yesterday. She was not as excited to see me at the end of the day as I was to see her. "You were right, Mama, I had a great day! Why did you have to come so early?!"
Sarabelle and Gracie are up in New Jersey for the net two weeks. I'm practically single and childless again. I have hours during the day where I do nothing but drive around and get things accomplished. No one changing the radio station, no one complaining that her sister touched her, no one begging to stop for snacks or drinks. Boy, do I miss them.
Our trip went well. We saw a large number of cousins and made it back home relatively unscathed.
Entering into a relationship with the intent or hope of changing someone is almost guaranteed to be ultimately unsuccessful, if not an outright disaster, but the best relationships, the successful unions, do change you. They make you a better person. The positives overcome the negatives. Unintentionally.
That's what I learned on my summer vacation.
My husband has softened my edges. I am not the person I once was, and more importantly, the person I would have been, because of our fortunate intersection. The juxtaposition of my past and present last week was jarring. Jorge's strengths outweigh my weaknesses. He has saved me in so many ways.
Sarabelle and Gracie are up in New Jersey for the net two weeks. I'm practically single and childless again. I have hours during the day where I do nothing but drive around and get things accomplished. No one changing the radio station, no one complaining that her sister touched her, no one begging to stop for snacks or drinks. Boy, do I miss them.
Our trip went well. We saw a large number of cousins and made it back home relatively unscathed.
Entering into a relationship with the intent or hope of changing someone is almost guaranteed to be ultimately unsuccessful, if not an outright disaster, but the best relationships, the successful unions, do change you. They make you a better person. The positives overcome the negatives. Unintentionally.
That's what I learned on my summer vacation.
My husband has softened my edges. I am not the person I once was, and more importantly, the person I would have been, because of our fortunate intersection. The juxtaposition of my past and present last week was jarring. Jorge's strengths outweigh my weaknesses. He has saved me in so many ways.
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