Everytime someone asks the inevitable WHY? question, Jorge and I fall back on a couple lame-o, but understandable to our audience, answers. It's always a good idea to keep your audience in mind. Let's take a look at some of these rote, hollow replies, shall we?
"Because we've been looking for someplace like Florida was when we grew up." Since I was nearly abducted as a child, I don't think that's quite true. Small town feel, maybe. Tourist and weirdo mecca, nah.
"We have no health insurance and Australia/New Zealand* has socialized medicine." Free medical care is a big plus, no doubt about it, but we could afford to secure at the bare minimum some Major Medical coverage if we really wanted to play that game.
"It was costly and difficult to obtain residency, and we don't want to lose it. As it is now, we could not qualify if we had to apply all over again." True and true.
The askers usually nod their head in agreement, at least to the second and third answers since most people around here have no idea what Florida was like when they were growing up Somewhere Else, and go on their merry way.
But that's only the half of it. No, actually that's only the 3/10ths of it:
Both Australia and New Zealand...
...are way the heck out in the middle of the Pacific. Isolation is a good thing. Except for allying themselves with the US, they have fewer enemies and are thus relatively safer from terrorist attacks. It's not a matter of IF, but WHEN. I prefer to keep my options open just in case.
...have plenty of beautiful, affordable agricultural land available at reasonable prices and economies strong in natural resources: Australia in minerals; New Zealand in agriculture.
...are generally more environmentally conscious and concerned.
...have lower population densities.
...are less politically correct when it comes to immigration policy. It's tough getting in. (Si, se puede! and all that, but you've got to be able to keep a handle on who's coming in these days, and who's already here over-extending their student visas, learning to fly airplanes, if you know what I mean.)
In addition, NZ has no nuclear facilities and forbids nuclear powered vessels from entering its territory.
As a bonus, NZ has way fewer terrifyingly dangerous critters than Australia.
* Sorry to lump all you Aussies and Kiwis together like that, I know there are distinct and proud differences between you, though you might be surprised how many people here in the geographically ignorant US think New Zealand is the same as Australia, and that Australia is all Crocodile Dundee. Then again, you might not...
After reading Vanity Fair's Green Issue -- the global warming article was a little shrill and alarmist, but also very troubling, especially the tidbit that even were we to cut greenhouse gas emissions 100% today, we would still have 25 years before the climate would stabilize -- and hearing Michael Pollan discussing his new book The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals on NPR, and reading numerous blogs on various environmental and self-sufficiency topics, and watching South Florida go through another fire season while the population skyrockets and rampant development causes the aquifer to dry up leaving wells with saltwater intrusion, I'm a little freaked.
We have been fooling ourselves. And possibly everyone else. We've repeated the same pat lines so often, we've come to believe them. Saying our six month mission to keep our hard won, expensive, residency alive is only partially true, and has been much easier for our families, and us, to swallow. Jorge, Mr. I Prefer Non-Fiction, has been reading The Grapes of Wrath and thoroughly enjoying it. He commented the other day, after comparing notes from his reading and one of my doom-and-gloom articles, that that is the reason we're doing this. And I realized then, with a bit of a shock, it meant we are going for a lifetime, not for the short term stringing out of our residency, but for our long-term future.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Moving along
Yesterday was my last day of work. I was just another local packing up to head somewhere else for the summer, so it was a very uneventful event. A few friendly hugs and promises to stay in touch with the knowledge that I am planning to return in November but with the uncertainty that they may never see me again. One thing is for sure though, if in the meantime M, my cohort and the boss's other assistant, is pushed to her limit and moves on to something else, I'm definitely not coming back. No way. The girl knows everything. And she's a lot of fun. So, just in case the boss ever finds this:
Hey! M needs a raise! Right now!! Pay up or she walks, man, and you really don't want that to happen...
Last night I went out and burned up some of the Christmas gift cards I still have hogging up way to much space in my wallet. I picked up extra sheets for our bed and for the girls' twins because we seem to have misplaced our extra set and the girls' bedding is pink and fluffy and covered with numerous nail polish stains, something that might not go over so well with the catsitter boys.
Today Jorge has spent the better part of the day carting the remaining banana boxes out of the garage and piling them up on the bookshelves. Our bedroom has been designated The Library for its generous wall space. It's now like a mini apartment, and I could easily shut myself up in here for very long periods of time. The contents of each banana box take up exactly one shelf. Thus far 22.5 of the available 25 shelves (not counting the one unit still in the garage) have been filled. That's a ton (or tonne, as I should get used to saying) of reading and teaching materials. Jorge questioned the sanity in keeping all these items until Elle picked up the multiplication Wrap-Ups and with a wee bit of guidance, promptly taught herself the ones, twos and tens times tables.
This week will be spent organizing books, not because it has anything to do with preparing for our transoceanic move, but because it will drive me nuts looking at them all mixed up.
Hey! M needs a raise! Right now!! Pay up or she walks, man, and you really don't want that to happen...
Last night I went out and burned up some of the Christmas gift cards I still have hogging up way to much space in my wallet. I picked up extra sheets for our bed and for the girls' twins because we seem to have misplaced our extra set and the girls' bedding is pink and fluffy and covered with numerous nail polish stains, something that might not go over so well with the catsitter boys.
Today Jorge has spent the better part of the day carting the remaining banana boxes out of the garage and piling them up on the bookshelves. Our bedroom has been designated The Library for its generous wall space. It's now like a mini apartment, and I could easily shut myself up in here for very long periods of time. The contents of each banana box take up exactly one shelf. Thus far 22.5 of the available 25 shelves (not counting the one unit still in the garage) have been filled. That's a ton (or tonne, as I should get used to saying) of reading and teaching materials. Jorge questioned the sanity in keeping all these items until Elle picked up the multiplication Wrap-Ups and with a wee bit of guidance, promptly taught herself the ones, twos and tens times tables.
This week will be spent organizing books, not because it has anything to do with preparing for our transoceanic move, but because it will drive me nuts looking at them all mixed up.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Faith
I have discovered that I harbor a very deep and strong faith. Not the kind where I go to church on Sundays and other Holy Days of Obligation and say that I put my trust in some higher power but then come home and worry about everything that could or could never possibly go wrong. Oh, no. It's the kind where we can just up and leave the country for months at a time, abandoning valuable properties in a low-lying, hurricane-infested coastal region, leaving good jobs and loads of potential work all for no other real reason than we want to.
Sure, I get all neurotic about the planning of such a monumental move, but when it comes right down to it, que sera, sera. Whatever. We'll get by. No worries. She'll be right, mate. [Lifted from an earlier email because I'm totally being lazy]: I'm taking it one day at a time. What gets done, gets done. What doesn't can probably be accomplished via email and wire transfers.
That's faith.
Sure, I get all neurotic about the planning of such a monumental move, but when it comes right down to it, que sera, sera. Whatever. We'll get by. No worries. She'll be right, mate. [Lifted from an earlier email because I'm totally being lazy]: I'm taking it one day at a time. What gets done, gets done. What doesn't can probably be accomplished via email and wire transfers.
That's faith.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Updates
Being a news journalist would drive me absolutely batty with stories changing as more information comes in...
First, my nephew:
He was readmitted to the hospital Sunday when his fever climbed to 104.4 and he began vomiting. Is it E.coli? Harmless Shigella? Who knows? He is definitely one sick little peanut, but I suspect there is an element of drama to all this that my family seems to thrive on, sick as that may be. When I was told that there was a Rotavirus! going around my brother's neighborhood I began to wonder. Rotavirus being a fancy, exotic, dangerous term for good old fashioned diarrhea.
The ospreys were doing a little house cleaning yesterday and pitched out the blue fabric we noticed decorating their nest. So that's where Elle's Mote Marine tee-shirt disappeared to. Goo Gone, Shout, Oxyclean, forget it, this was way beyond cleaning. And this morning as we loaded up the car for school, what do we see? Two baby osprey up in the nest with one of the parents! Now the mystery is, whose leg did they find?
First, my nephew:
He was readmitted to the hospital Sunday when his fever climbed to 104.4 and he began vomiting. Is it E.coli? Harmless Shigella? Who knows? He is definitely one sick little peanut, but I suspect there is an element of drama to all this that my family seems to thrive on, sick as that may be. When I was told that there was a Rotavirus! going around my brother's neighborhood I began to wonder. Rotavirus being a fancy, exotic, dangerous term for good old fashioned diarrhea.
The ospreys were doing a little house cleaning yesterday and pitched out the blue fabric we noticed decorating their nest. So that's where Elle's Mote Marine tee-shirt disappeared to. Goo Gone, Shout, Oxyclean, forget it, this was way beyond cleaning. And this morning as we loaded up the car for school, what do we see? Two baby osprey up in the nest with one of the parents! Now the mystery is, whose leg did they find?
Monday, April 24, 2006
Hard Lessons
Yesterday, as I gathered towels and topped off the cooler in preparation to join practically the entire student body of the girls' itsy bitsy, teeny weeny public school for their usual Sunday island beach get together, my three girls and a sleepover friend ran into my room sobbing. Shotzie and Lulu, the osprey pair who made a nest atop our power pole, hatched a pair of babies not too long ago. We first noticed the little ones, Tootie and Lola, April 1, and since then as they rapidly increased in size, we've been eagerly awaiting their first trip out of the nest. Only about a week ago, we could only see one baby. I calmed the kids' fears by stating I didn't think the birds would invest so much time and energy into raising two nearly fledged youngsters only to kill one off; it would have been easier to push an extra egg out of the of the nest, or peck a newly hatched birdie to death if they were incapable of caring for two. Maybe it had already flown off. But the distraught, tear-stained faces told a different story. They found a leg, a rather large leg ending in a curled up talon from a good-sized bird, and feathers, many, many feathers on the ground below. Did the baby fall out and our cat(s) got it? Did the baby starve to death as they concentrated on the dominant bird and then get pitched over the side to be eaten by our cat(s)? Did the birds attack and kill the runt?
I got them calmed down and we discussed the realities and possibilities. That's life...
And then after a long, hot day at the beach and showers and dinner, the girls snuggled in their pajamas to watch Nature: CLOUD: Wild Stallion of the Rockies. The delighted squeals that accompanied the birth of a tiny foal became concerned moans and shouts of encouragement as the wobbly little one tried to gain his feet, and as it became apparent that there was something wrong with his legs, groans, and finally horrified screams as the herd's leader came over, nudged the baby, and then bit, shook, and stomped it to death.
Sweet dreams, kids.
I got them calmed down and we discussed the realities and possibilities. That's life...
And then after a long, hot day at the beach and showers and dinner, the girls snuggled in their pajamas to watch Nature: CLOUD: Wild Stallion of the Rockies. The delighted squeals that accompanied the birth of a tiny foal became concerned moans and shouts of encouragement as the wobbly little one tried to gain his feet, and as it became apparent that there was something wrong with his legs, groans, and finally horrified screams as the herd's leader came over, nudged the baby, and then bit, shook, and stomped it to death.
Sweet dreams, kids.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Whoops
My darling nephew was released from the hospital today after a second round of test confirmed he did NOT have E. coli. Poor little guy. I'm glad he's out of there -- doesn't make you real comfortable with the hospital's level of expertise, does it?
Friday, April 21, 2006
My darling little nephew was hospitalized today for an unspecified length of time with a confirmed case of shiga-toxin producing Escherichia coli (E. coli) The CDC has been out to their house to conduct an interview. No beef, no unpastuerized fruit juice, some whole fruit, some salami, no definite answers.
Spring Cleaning
Clothes. Boxes and boxes of clothes. Dressers-full, left out in the garage, forgotten. Never let them tell me they have nothing to wear.
My kids do not have a problem with hand-me-downs. They think it's kind of exciting to wear their sister's former favorite outfit; sort of an honor. Clothing gets recycled from Sarabelle to Gracie to Elle, who then promptly renders most items unwearable. But that does not stop certain family members from buying them all new clothes all the time. No. Ignoring their Yankee sensibilities they insist, "Everyone should have a new shirt/skirt/pair of pants/sweater/shoes/dress of their own once in a while to feel good about themselves!" So despite my pleas to the contrary, we are bombarded on holidays and birthdays and just visiting days with new clothes for our desperately needy children. Apparently my preference for recycling is seen not as thriftiness or anti-materialism, but as poverty. I have been openly castigated for allowing my youngest, at five years of age, to wear a shirt labeled 2T. Good thing they didn't find the skort tagged 18 mos. Hey, if the shirt fits...
These certain family members are as unfamiliar with my reasoning as they are with the concept of Quality, Not Quantity. Instead of one nice classic shirt, we get two pairs of too big sweatpants and one matching skort all covered with logos and rainbow hearts and sparkles; a skimpy, thin knit top with giant flowers printed on it that are already flaking off where the knit ribbing stretches; three pairs of hideous knee socks; two pairs of tights, one pink with white pom poms, one red with white hearts (the whole lot obviously on clearance from a Valentine's Day sale); two not too terribly offensive long-sleeved knit shirts with only slightly annoying, cutesy animal characters on them; one plain white shirt that should fit in approximately three years, and one decent long-sleeved striped knit shirt. I thank them, and gently point out that if they are truly worried about their finances for the balance of their retirement, as they constantly remind me, maybe they should stop buying so much crap. "But they were on sale!" they insist. Then I tell them I hope they have saved the receipt and hand them back the bag minus the three long-sleeved knit shirts -- because the daughter who is the recipient of said gifts had already been shown all the items prior to my seeing them in an attempt to strongarm me into accepting them, and according to their plan, she loves the cutesy animal character shirts -- and thank them again. It's the thought that counts, right? Said recipient has been advised that the other outfits are way too big and will be put away until she is big enough and by then they will have been hopefully forgotten.
And in the meantime I wash and dry and sort and pack. This bag for Goodwill, that bag for the orphanage. One to the drycleaner, one to the tailor. A bin for clothes to be handed down, another for out of season outfits. There are baskets of clean laundry to be folded in my bedroom and more baskets in the living room. Piles of clothes on top of dressers already folded awaiting assignment to one of the aforementioned bags or bins, and piles on the dining room table being considered for the suitcases.
Several months back, a co-worker mentioned that she used to have the very same skirt I was wearing, a long time ago. This particular linen, designer, tropical print mock sarong has always been a favorite and after 15 years it can still be dressed up or down, looks good on, and is comfortable, so I let the remark pass with a laugh. I'll bet she thinks I bought her cast-off at Boca Bargains, the used goods fundraising shop on the island where she volunteers, and where I once snapped up a pair of black Irish linen Talbot's pants for one dollar when I was prodded to look inside by another co-worker and the only thing my wardrobe lacked was a pair of black pants. Then at the HOOT premiere, while I sat waiting for the show to start, looking very dressy casual in my old skirt, a tailored silk blouse, and pearls, I felt a poke in my butt. Seated behind me, an old Boca crow smiled, wagged one perfectly manicured talon, and told me in her my-family-came-over-on-the-Mayflower tone, "I love that skirt, dear. I used to have that. Exact. Same. One. Such a beautiful print. I wish I had kept it. It would have made lovely pillows."
Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without. Words to live by.
My kids do not have a problem with hand-me-downs. They think it's kind of exciting to wear their sister's former favorite outfit; sort of an honor. Clothing gets recycled from Sarabelle to Gracie to Elle, who then promptly renders most items unwearable. But that does not stop certain family members from buying them all new clothes all the time. No. Ignoring their Yankee sensibilities they insist, "Everyone should have a new shirt/skirt/pair of pants/sweater/shoes/dress of their own once in a while to feel good about themselves!" So despite my pleas to the contrary, we are bombarded on holidays and birthdays and just visiting days with new clothes for our desperately needy children. Apparently my preference for recycling is seen not as thriftiness or anti-materialism, but as poverty. I have been openly castigated for allowing my youngest, at five years of age, to wear a shirt labeled 2T. Good thing they didn't find the skort tagged 18 mos. Hey, if the shirt fits...
These certain family members are as unfamiliar with my reasoning as they are with the concept of Quality, Not Quantity. Instead of one nice classic shirt, we get two pairs of too big sweatpants and one matching skort all covered with logos and rainbow hearts and sparkles; a skimpy, thin knit top with giant flowers printed on it that are already flaking off where the knit ribbing stretches; three pairs of hideous knee socks; two pairs of tights, one pink with white pom poms, one red with white hearts (the whole lot obviously on clearance from a Valentine's Day sale); two not too terribly offensive long-sleeved knit shirts with only slightly annoying, cutesy animal characters on them; one plain white shirt that should fit in approximately three years, and one decent long-sleeved striped knit shirt. I thank them, and gently point out that if they are truly worried about their finances for the balance of their retirement, as they constantly remind me, maybe they should stop buying so much crap. "But they were on sale!" they insist. Then I tell them I hope they have saved the receipt and hand them back the bag minus the three long-sleeved knit shirts -- because the daughter who is the recipient of said gifts had already been shown all the items prior to my seeing them in an attempt to strongarm me into accepting them, and according to their plan, she loves the cutesy animal character shirts -- and thank them again. It's the thought that counts, right? Said recipient has been advised that the other outfits are way too big and will be put away until she is big enough and by then they will have been hopefully forgotten.
And in the meantime I wash and dry and sort and pack. This bag for Goodwill, that bag for the orphanage. One to the drycleaner, one to the tailor. A bin for clothes to be handed down, another for out of season outfits. There are baskets of clean laundry to be folded in my bedroom and more baskets in the living room. Piles of clothes on top of dressers already folded awaiting assignment to one of the aforementioned bags or bins, and piles on the dining room table being considered for the suitcases.
Several months back, a co-worker mentioned that she used to have the very same skirt I was wearing, a long time ago. This particular linen, designer, tropical print mock sarong has always been a favorite and after 15 years it can still be dressed up or down, looks good on, and is comfortable, so I let the remark pass with a laugh. I'll bet she thinks I bought her cast-off at Boca Bargains, the used goods fundraising shop on the island where she volunteers, and where I once snapped up a pair of black Irish linen Talbot's pants for one dollar when I was prodded to look inside by another co-worker and the only thing my wardrobe lacked was a pair of black pants. Then at the HOOT premiere, while I sat waiting for the show to start, looking very dressy casual in my old skirt, a tailored silk blouse, and pearls, I felt a poke in my butt. Seated behind me, an old Boca crow smiled, wagged one perfectly manicured talon, and told me in her my-family-came-over-on-the-Mayflower tone, "I love that skirt, dear. I used to have that. Exact. Same. One. Such a beautiful print. I wish I had kept it. It would have made lovely pillows."
Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without. Words to live by.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Misplaced
I tried to explain that "heated association pool" brings to mind a knock-down-drag-out home owners' or condo board meeting, and "heated" should modify "pool," but to no avail. One of my assignments has been to nitpick the grammar, punctuation, and spelling on the company website (I'm not perfect, but I generally get the glaring ones) but, alas, real estate has its own rules.
My replacement, hopefully at least as competent but certainly nowhere near as picky, has been located and will begin training later this week. She'll be doing a six month stint at my desk at the right hand of the father until our planned return in late November. What I haven't mentioned yet is the possibility that we may get down there and find out that we have been given the wrong information, that our six month plan does not fully conform to the everchanging immigration dictates by the powers that be, and we will immediately be hopping a plane to Australia for the two-year plan.
My replacement, hopefully at least as competent but certainly nowhere near as picky, has been located and will begin training later this week. She'll be doing a six month stint at my desk at the right hand of the father until our planned return in late November. What I haven't mentioned yet is the possibility that we may get down there and find out that we have been given the wrong information, that our six month plan does not fully conform to the everchanging immigration dictates by the powers that be, and we will immediately be hopping a plane to Australia for the two-year plan.
"I am the decider."
Wow. Another good one, Mr. President!
I'll be using that frequently -- maybe even on my business cards.
I'll be using that frequently -- maybe even on my business cards.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Paro
Narrowing down my reading selections for the trip has been torturous, but I'm almost down to the bare minimum, many books having been downloaded onto my laptop, some in both audio and text formats, others included in abbreviated versions in the anthologies, and some completely eliminated. Jorge has purchased new luggage, two smaller wheelie bags for me and him, and one gigantic wheelie bag (so big that Sarabelle and Gracie promptly packed Elle up in it and toted her around the house) for all three girls. Our old backpacks being too flimsy to cart books around in without inflicting severe damage, I will probably hit a thrift shop this week in search of a medium-sized, hard-sided suitcase. I wish I could show you my portable schoolhouse, it's beautiful, in an obsessive-compulsive kind of way, the girls' three 5" binders containing notebooks, sketchbooks, mini whiteboards, and drawing and writing supplies, and mine with its study guides, answer keys, CDs, and even more supplies, but unfortunately, my photo file host has been pirated by some scurvy hacker dogs who left the cryptic, "ARG!" in place of my normal start-up screen, so you'll just have to take my word for it -- for now. I'm planning to switch over to the new blog within a few days of leaving and from then on, uploading pictures should be a breeze. But back to books. I find myself torn about leaving some behind, books that were never intended to be part of this specific curriculum. What about reference materials for the project I've been working on? Suppose I read everything and want more? What if I want a change from ancient literature? What happens when I need Climbing Parnassus to remind why I'm bothering with this whole classical education rigmarole? Or when I need Ms. Mason's gentle reminders to lighten up a bit? Or I need the guidance of Mr. Zinsser's On Writing Well or Strunk and White's Elements of Style? So I contemplate the space on the two short shelves where the approved books sit for now and wonder which other ones I might slide in next to them.
And heaven forbid, what if we stay down there and never come back? It could be a long while before I'm reunited with my library...
The one book I know for certain that I am going to bring that is not on my Greek studies list, and of which I have downloaded an older edition, and which is still too valuable to leave behind, is my bible. Nearly all my favorite authors are there with some snippet of wisdom on nearly any subject. Now, sound bytes have gotten a bad rap lately, but look at their precedents: fables, chreia, maxims, and proverbs; all part of the progymnasmata. Brevity is the soul of wit.
We are planning to purchase a vehicle when we arrive down under rather than rent. Many places offer purchase/buy back plans for travelers in our extended vacation situation. Jorge and the kids thought I had lost my mind when I suggested this. Not for camping necessarily, I explained, but just to ride around in. It gives you more room than an SUV, you can stretch out, you can carry food around and prepare meals, it's way more interesting than some boring regular car... All it took was one look at the available vehicles before the girls started jumping and squealing, "We want Huby! We want Huby!", and even Jorge admitted that it might be worth investigating a little further. Travel is about the journey, not the destination.
And heaven forbid, what if we stay down there and never come back? It could be a long while before I'm reunited with my library...
The one book I know for certain that I am going to bring that is not on my Greek studies list, and of which I have downloaded an older edition, and which is still too valuable to leave behind, is my bible. Nearly all my favorite authors are there with some snippet of wisdom on nearly any subject. Now, sound bytes have gotten a bad rap lately, but look at their precedents: fables, chreia, maxims, and proverbs; all part of the progymnasmata. Brevity is the soul of wit.
We are planning to purchase a vehicle when we arrive down under rather than rent. Many places offer purchase/buy back plans for travelers in our extended vacation situation. Jorge and the kids thought I had lost my mind when I suggested this. Not for camping necessarily, I explained, but just to ride around in. It gives you more room than an SUV, you can stretch out, you can carry food around and prepare meals, it's way more interesting than some boring regular car... All it took was one look at the available vehicles before the girls started jumping and squealing, "We want Huby! We want Huby!", and even Jorge admitted that it might be worth investigating a little further. Travel is about the journey, not the destination.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Thank you President Bush...
...for my favorite new response to just about any question I care to answer:
"It's just wild speculation!"
"It's just wild speculation!"
Bureaucracy
According to the online tracker, the girls' renewal passports and their old ones with their attached Australian visas would be returned by April 8. Yesterday, April 10, I received a letter explaining that the agency needed more information for two of the three applications. Worried about the time it will take to procure additional copies of certain documents (and by the way, documents that were necessary to obtain the original passports, and the same documents that were presented and checked off by the postal clerk who processed their renewals this time) I requested the whole package be returned in order to physically drive the paperwork to Miami and have it all processed in one day. I'm running out of time here, folks. It was explained that I would need to submit this request in writing. And I still don't have the letter for the third application yet, which must be returned with all this additional info as well. So efficient, aren't they?
Also in yesterday's mail, an envelope from the IRS. Not the thin, gold, check-enclosed type, but a fatter, white one. One which contained a request for, yes, more information. Here's the thing: This year I filed separately, I don't itemize, my return is about as simple as it gets. They're already getting more than they deserve, but I willingly pay for the convenience of getting them off my back as quickly as possible. I spent about 30 minutes on the phone this morning getting that straightened out. While I waited on hold for the next available automaton to assist me, I was treated to a suite from The Nutcracker.
Also in yesterday's mail, an envelope from the IRS. Not the thin, gold, check-enclosed type, but a fatter, white one. One which contained a request for, yes, more information. Here's the thing: This year I filed separately, I don't itemize, my return is about as simple as it gets. They're already getting more than they deserve, but I willingly pay for the convenience of getting them off my back as quickly as possible. I spent about 30 minutes on the phone this morning getting that straightened out. While I waited on hold for the next available automaton to assist me, I was treated to a suite from The Nutcracker.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Three of a kind
All last week Elle's kindergarten class took the Stanford Achievement Test. Did I think she would do well? Absolutely, but I never guessed she would ace it. Her teacher confided to me that Elle received a perfect score.
Okay, now I know who my mother-in-law was referring to. The deck is definitely stacked against me.
Okay, now I know who my mother-in-law was referring to. The deck is definitely stacked against me.
Floridays
I got to see Carl, but unfortunately only in his cameo role on-screen. Both he and Jimmy, who had appeared at the Fort Lauderdale premier, were busy squeezing in a little fishing between writing deadlines and concert dates. Wil Shriner was there, and after Jorge and I wondered about the location of a particular Fort Lauderdale scene, my boss brought us over to meet him and solve the mystery. We spent some time with him talking about his brother, Kin, who appears briefly in the movie (remember Scotty from General Hospital?), the everpresent giant sharks off Elliot Key where there's a beautiful aerial in the film of Roy and Mulletfingers castnetting on the sandbar, and reminiscing about growing up in Fort Lauderdale in the Good Old Days. The movie is his homage to his childhood and I have to say, he did a pretty good job of evoking the sense of freedom and adventure we felt back then along with showing the wild beauty of the place before most of it was paved. As far as telling the story and building empathy for the little owls, eh, not so much, though maybe I was just distracted by the locations ("It's Boca, it's Lauderdale, it's Boca again, now it's West Hollywood, Biscayne Bay, back to Boca, where is that?...") Jorge, full of himself and maybe a Bombay Sapphire and soda or two, kindly told Wil that he thought it was a great team to collaborate on such a project and that they did a fine job on a fun, local movie. I almost stomped on his foot, but before Jorge lost a few toes, Wil laughed and said thanks, but he hoped it would be more of a national movie.
From there, my boss, life of the party, dragged us down to the one fun place on the island where everyone was forced to consume more liquor and dance to a lively reggae band. Did I ever tell you how much I hate dancing in public? Unless I'm completely drunk, which I never am. It all goes back to some humiliating episode in my childhood, I'm sure. Anyway, no wonder the man has had multiple knee replacements. He is a maniac with more than twice the energy of someone half his age. Afterward he needed a ride off-island to pick his car up from the repair shop, and since our office manager, and future catsitter, was heading in that general direction she would take him. But she had left her car at our house and ridden over with us after dropping her older son off with our girls after the kids saw the matinee. That meant we had to take the boss to our house first. The house he sold us. Naturally he had to come in and see what we had done with the place. Which is virtually nothing. Miraculously he did not wake up Gracie and Elle, and Sarabelle and the boy were treated to a fair dose of loud adult conversation and juicy island gossip before they headed off into the night.
So now I know the boss on a whole new level, because during the ride over to our house, someone, and I won't say who, sparked one up. And no one seemed to mind, because if you're of a certain age and lived around these parts, say, from the 70's to the mid 80's, you smoke. Or you if you ever ran a fishing boat or flew a plane or happened to be a fireman on duty lucky enough to stumble across a square grouper on the beach one night after a call or lived in the Keys or near the Everglades or in Everglades City where half the town was busted (and where Jorge's Grandmother was the one-time mayor), you made the most of the situation. It's part of our culture. Mr. Buffett is not hearkening back to the days of Spanish galleons when he sings of pirates. Nope, we grew up with real pirates who are now respected members of the community and know where all the skeletons are buried and tell fantastic tales. Especially when they've got a good buzz on.
(That reminds me, the other day, in the land of the vanity plates, the girls and I saw what we consider to be the best one yet: R MATEY.)
After all the festivities, and being verrrrry relaxed, I stretched out on my bed with Sarabelle, and we had a wonderful, giggly, grown-up conversation about all that had transpired that evening from the matinee on up to the late night home invasion. It was like talking to your best friend and definitely the best part of the whole night.
FLORIDAYS
Jimmy Buffett
I come from where the rivers meet the sea
That's part of why I'm so wild and fancy free
I was early into crazy ways
My folks said, "It's just a phase"
They were hoping for better days
Now in my line of work I seem to see a lot more than most
Write 'em down, pass 'em around
It's the gospel from the coast
Reflections, not just replays
Takin' time to escape the maze
Lookin' for better days
I spent a year of my life one night
On the beaches in old Beirut
Seems that all they're aimin' for there
Is to hang around and shoot
Each others' lives away
Bloody winds on a distant bay
they're lookin' for better days
Looking to the left, looking to the right
Looking to the stars to shed some light
Hoping for a breath, hoping for break
Hopin' for the give without the take
The dreamers line the state road
Just to watch the runway show
Slouched behind their steering wheels
They just watch the big jets go
Streakin' through the morning haze
Focal point of a distant gaze
Lookin' for better days
(INSTRUMENTAL)
Pale invaders and tanned crusaders
Are worshipping the sun
On the corner of "walk" and "don't walk"
Somewhere on US 1
I'm back to livin' Floridays
Blue skies and ultra-violet rays
Lookin' for better days
I'm back to livin' Floridays
Blue skies and ultra-violet rays
Lookin' for better days, lookin' for better days
Lookin' for Floridays
Better days, better days
Everybody's lookin' for better days
Somewhere beneath the shining star
Better days, won't you take me to better days
Better days, I sure could use a few better days
Floridays
From there, my boss, life of the party, dragged us down to the one fun place on the island where everyone was forced to consume more liquor and dance to a lively reggae band. Did I ever tell you how much I hate dancing in public? Unless I'm completely drunk, which I never am. It all goes back to some humiliating episode in my childhood, I'm sure. Anyway, no wonder the man has had multiple knee replacements. He is a maniac with more than twice the energy of someone half his age. Afterward he needed a ride off-island to pick his car up from the repair shop, and since our office manager, and future catsitter, was heading in that general direction she would take him. But she had left her car at our house and ridden over with us after dropping her older son off with our girls after the kids saw the matinee. That meant we had to take the boss to our house first. The house he sold us. Naturally he had to come in and see what we had done with the place. Which is virtually nothing. Miraculously he did not wake up Gracie and Elle, and Sarabelle and the boy were treated to a fair dose of loud adult conversation and juicy island gossip before they headed off into the night.
So now I know the boss on a whole new level, because during the ride over to our house, someone, and I won't say who, sparked one up. And no one seemed to mind, because if you're of a certain age and lived around these parts, say, from the 70's to the mid 80's, you smoke. Or you if you ever ran a fishing boat or flew a plane or happened to be a fireman on duty lucky enough to stumble across a square grouper on the beach one night after a call or lived in the Keys or near the Everglades or in Everglades City where half the town was busted (and where Jorge's Grandmother was the one-time mayor), you made the most of the situation. It's part of our culture. Mr. Buffett is not hearkening back to the days of Spanish galleons when he sings of pirates. Nope, we grew up with real pirates who are now respected members of the community and know where all the skeletons are buried and tell fantastic tales. Especially when they've got a good buzz on.
(That reminds me, the other day, in the land of the vanity plates, the girls and I saw what we consider to be the best one yet: R MATEY.)
After all the festivities, and being verrrrry relaxed, I stretched out on my bed with Sarabelle, and we had a wonderful, giggly, grown-up conversation about all that had transpired that evening from the matinee on up to the late night home invasion. It was like talking to your best friend and definitely the best part of the whole night.
FLORIDAYS
Jimmy Buffett
I come from where the rivers meet the sea
That's part of why I'm so wild and fancy free
I was early into crazy ways
My folks said, "It's just a phase"
They were hoping for better days
Now in my line of work I seem to see a lot more than most
Write 'em down, pass 'em around
It's the gospel from the coast
Reflections, not just replays
Takin' time to escape the maze
Lookin' for better days
I spent a year of my life one night
On the beaches in old Beirut
Seems that all they're aimin' for there
Is to hang around and shoot
Each others' lives away
Bloody winds on a distant bay
they're lookin' for better days
Looking to the left, looking to the right
Looking to the stars to shed some light
Hoping for a breath, hoping for break
Hopin' for the give without the take
The dreamers line the state road
Just to watch the runway show
Slouched behind their steering wheels
They just watch the big jets go
Streakin' through the morning haze
Focal point of a distant gaze
Lookin' for better days
(INSTRUMENTAL)
Pale invaders and tanned crusaders
Are worshipping the sun
On the corner of "walk" and "don't walk"
Somewhere on US 1
I'm back to livin' Floridays
Blue skies and ultra-violet rays
Lookin' for better days
I'm back to livin' Floridays
Blue skies and ultra-violet rays
Lookin' for better days, lookin' for better days
Lookin' for Floridays
Better days, better days
Everybody's lookin' for better days
Somewhere beneath the shining star
Better days, won't you take me to better days
Better days, I sure could use a few better days
Floridays
Thursday, April 06, 2006
This will be a HOOT
I have a date with my secret bofriend tomorrow night. He just doesn't know it yet.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
A good one
This morning as Jorge straightened up the kitchen counter, he came across Gracie's weekly report from her teacher, haphazardly tossed on top of the usual pile of papers awaiting our signatures. It was horrible. Instead of the usual check plus marks we're accustomed to seeing, there were check minuses all down the paper and a comment detailing what a difficult week Gracie had. Even a frowny face.
"Did you see this?" he asked me, rather alarmed.
"No. I didn't. GRACIE! Come here, please!" I had just finished reading a chapter in Protecting the Gift that listed signs of serious trouble, including sudden changes in school performance...
"Yes Mom?"
"What's up with this?" I asked, trying to remain cool and calm but fearing the worst, as I handed her the report.
She handed us a duplicate report, with the marks and comments we expected to see, a big happy face, and "APRIL FOOLS! From Gracie and Mrs. B." scrawled on the bottom.
They got us good.
"Did you see this?" he asked me, rather alarmed.
"No. I didn't. GRACIE! Come here, please!" I had just finished reading a chapter in Protecting the Gift that listed signs of serious trouble, including sudden changes in school performance...
"Yes Mom?"
"What's up with this?" I asked, trying to remain cool and calm but fearing the worst, as I handed her the report.
She handed us a duplicate report, with the marks and comments we expected to see, a big happy face, and "APRIL FOOLS! From Gracie and Mrs. B." scrawled on the bottom.
They got us good.
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