Stepford or Utopia?

Sometimes watching the Andy Griffith Show, I long to live in a small town where you know your neighbors and every important holiday is celebrated with friends in the town square. But this week, I stared that dream in the face and what I saw was rathering frightening.

Welcome to The Villages, FL, the perfect town. The buildings are perfect. Downtown has lots of shops and restaurants. The town square was decorated in red, white and blue bunting in honor of the presidential candidate visiting. A "weathered" building near the water added to the authentic atmosphere of a quaint, safe town.

Neighborhoods with gleaming sidewalks and manicured lawns and almost identical houses -- each with a screened or columned porch -- completed the picture of utopia.

The surrounding retail and chain restaurants all perfectly fit in with the schemes of either a Spanish mission or a southern lake community.

The cars all glistened -- no dented old cars with bad paint jobs here.

A perfect community for those 55 and older. Though, by law, since they've incorporated, the city has to allow at least 38 percent of its inhabitants to be 50 years and younger. We didn't see any of those people during our visit. Though, the high school was equally as manicured and perfect as the surrounding neighborhoods.

Most of the 55+ folks who live there also drive golf carts to events down town. Some sported chrome wheels and fancy paint jobs. The names of the owners, frequently were part of the paint scheme.

But there's a darker side to the Villages and communities like them; permanent Walt Disney Worlds for old people. But reports like the one issued today about the amount of AIDS meds paid for by Medicare crack the perfect facade. That's right folks. STDs are rampant in Utopia. More alcohol is consumed in The Villages than most college campuses. It's no wonder that at 2 p.m. in the afternoon, a nice silver-haired granny was downing liquor shots at the bar of the restaurant where we ate a late lunch.

The "Bait Shacks" around the town square look quaint. On closer inspection, we found out they were actually bars. Four of them, each at the corner of the town square. I guess when you're 55+, you don't want to walk far for a drink.

This community isn't that unique in Florida, though. The TrumanShow was filmed in a community just like this on the Florida panhandle - Seaside, FL. A real town, not a sound stage.

I definitely don't want to live in the perfect town. Only one member of our group said they would move there. Not me. I want the real world, not an escape route to a la la land.

My travels around Florida are giving me an interesting view of this state. I love the capital city, Tallahassee, with its moss-covered trees and old mansions. Though, whatever possessed Florida to turn its beautiful historic Capitol building into a museum and build an ugly high rise building to represent the state's government eludes common sense.

The country roads between Tampa and Jacksonville with tall pines and rambling country ranches and farms with orchards are Florida. The Everglades are so overwhelming that you don't know where they end. I love it all: Miami with its foreign flair and Orlando with its parks. Then home, of course. Our own rag-tag beach community. Even southeast Florida - Boca Raton - with its "hurry up" attitude jutting against the laid back beaches is interesting. Florida is a quilt with many layers and pieces. I'm sure I'll find more of them.

But The Villages will definitely take honors in being just plain creepy.

Today is International Talk like a Pirate Day

Aargh matey:

http://www.talklikeapirateday.com/transl...

If mothers ruled the world

Sally Field made a good point -- well as much as she was able -- about if mothers ruled the world. If mothers ruled the world there probably WOULD be no war. Mothers don't want to send their babies off to die. At least most mothers don't.

What else would be different if mothers ruled the world?

No more dirty underwear on the floor.
Everyone would eat dinner together.
PTA meetings wouldn't start at 5 p.m.
Child molesters would be shot after the first offense, none of this register offender crap. (hey, a tigress does protect her cubs)
We would all have shorter work days and longer family time.
Our children would leave home, but live nearby

That's just for starters...so finish the thought, "If mothers ruled the world...?"

Mormons and such

I've been thinking about Mormons -- members of the Latter Day Saints denomination -- lately. Probably because I'm spending a lot of time at campaign events lately and Mitt Romney actually visits Florida - a lot.


But I digress...which reminds me I have great admiration for folks like Melessa from the blog by that name, and my long-time friends Kimberly and Tim. Wonderful people. Most Mormons fall into that category of wonderful, NICE people.

None of the them is of the "Big Love" ilk.

Yet, all these nice Mormon folk are seen as outsiders by those in the "mainstream" religions. You know those who believe that you must believe in Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior. My friends tell me that Mormons do indeed believe in Jesus. They believe he was a prophet.

That alone has prompted many of sermon from the pulpits of good Christian churches. I remember once, in Canyon, Texas, at a METHODIST church where the preacher went on and on about all the Mormons going to hell. My daughter, who had friends at school who were Mormon, asked me, "does that mean J...is going to hell?"

I fail to believe so. Yet, that belief sometimes goes against the grain of everything we are taught in Sunday School. You MUST be born again. You MUST believe in Jesus as Lord. Or you are going to hell.

Again, I fail to believe that nice, good people are going to hell. While the likes of some " born again" preacher who hates Mexicans, Asians, Blacks, gays, and anyone who didn't make enough money or come from the right family goes to heaven (any resemblance to any living person is merely a coincidence, I was just using that imaginary preacher as an example.)

So because I refuse to believe that someone will go to hell just for being a Mormon, does that mean I'm going to hell too?

Cracker barrel of tears

Do you ever find yourself looking for the familiar? Last week I was a little homesick. This feeling was likely increased by the nervousness I was feeling about my impending trip to Miami.

Miami's always been a larger than life location, like Hollywood or New York City. I was going there for work. I'm new to this public p.r. position, so I was worried that I wouldn't live up to the expectations of the headquarters people that would be there.

I was worried that I wouldn't fit in with the beautiful people I was sure lived there. The two co-workers whom I had met from the Miami office did nothing to dispel that myth. They are both gorgeous Latinas with flowing hair, perfect bodies and runway-suitable clothing. I was worried that my Spanish wasn't going to cut the mustard (or plaintain) with the folks from Univision and the other media. I was nervous.

So on the way to Miami, I had hubby stop off for dinner -- at Cracker Barrel. This place is the same where ever you are. From the wooden rocking chairs to the corny shirts in the store, we could have been in Oklahoma. I order a sampler that provided me a variety of country fare to taste.

When I bit into the chicken and noodles that reminded me of the ones my mother-in-law used to make, the tears started. My husband didn't know what was wrong. I couldn't explain. I cried because my mother-in-law's memory has long softened. She can no longer cook the delicious meals that I wouldn't even attempt to cook. I cried because the old Gene Autry song playing in the restaurant made me long for the days when we had to run to keep up with my dad. I cried because the fried chicken reminded me of Sunday dinners, cooked by my mother for our big family.

I cried because I'm missing "Big 12" country.

Yes, I like Florida. Yes, I like my job. And, on any given day the beach and view of the water still take my breath away. But I was nervous and scared, and sometimes, the familiar is a good place to hide.

I wiped away the tears and laughed at my silliness -- crying at Cracker Barrel -- and we headed down the road.

I popped in a Dixie Chicks c.d. and sang loudly as we came into the city, which is as wonderful as I expected. The familiar for this Texas gal worked.

I survived. My Spanish was not near as bad as I thought. My clothes were fine. The bosses were thrilled with our work and the D.C. delegate sent me some flowers and a great note the day after.

Maybe the tears helped after all. I think I'll make it a habit to have dinner at Cracker Barrel every once in a while.

Miami Heat

Welcome to Miami. The city has been immortalized in our minds through television shows (Miami Vice, CSI, etc.) So I've been nervous and excited about my weekend here.

Yes, I'm in Miami! Work (Univision presidential debate) is keeping me busy, but I got a chance to slip away this evening. I headed to downtown Miami, and being the tourist that I am headed over to Bayside near the Port of Miami.

Fun. Great food, and live music everywhere. The lights, the colors, the language, the Latin music, people dancing...it was fun. A bit overwhelming, but fun.

Tomorrow night, we're headed to Little Havana to meet friends for dinner. Fun.

And, yes, we thought about you tonight, Bart. You would love it.

Things I never talked about as a teenager

Being a teen in the 1970s meant changes. After all, the 60s generation had taught us to rebel. Some of my peers pushed the envelope, wearing bell bottoms and "hot pants" and talking openly about smoking pot. They challenged authority.

In high school, there were some things I would never have talked about or heard discussed even by those who were wilder than most.

Even when I left the sheltered life of Abernathy, Texas and moved to Sidney, Montana for my high school year. Yes, I had run off. Gotten married, and was married in high school my senior year. That was pretty risque for back then. I had rebelled.

In Sidney, my circle of friends were different. There was Meredith, the feminist who refused to wear a bra even though she really needed to wear one. Marty and Jill, the actresses. Everyone was different -- something never really celebrated in the cookie cutter world I had lived in before.

But still, some things we never talked about.

Which brings me to today. Hubby and I were sitting on a bench at the mall, deciding where to head for supper. A group of teens, young teens, probably about 14-15, some barely one year past puberty, were standing in front of us. They were all dressed the same, boys and girls, in wrinkled T-shirts and baggy jeans with long, stringy hair.

"Gay, or not gay?" asked the tallest of the group to one of the shortest boys in the group. "I'm not gay," says the little one. "I can prove it." He pulls out what is obviously a note from some girl that they all hoot about.

Tall boy points to another one in the crowd. This one a girl, "Gay?" She shakes her head, no. "Bi?" she says yes, looking embarrassed and yet at the same time as if she's seeking approval. She gets approval and a high five and a hug from another.

The game continues. They openly talk about sex acts that still make me blush.

Maybe it's my 50 years, or maybe it's our changing societal mores. But those were definitely things that I never would have talked about -- OK, or even known about -- when I was in high school.

I pictured my grandson and granddaughters a few years down the line, at the mall, talking to their friends. I shudder. Progress, I don't think is always for the best...

Picture of the Day

Bad hair day? Or the same hairstylist? Smile

Sunday afternoons

Sunday afternoons were always fun growing up. All the work of the week was completed on Saturday. Sunday morning we would all go to church -- Sunday school included.

My mother, like all good Baptist wives -- would put a roast in the oven before getting herself and her children to church. After Sunday dinner, we would all play or listen to music, while our parents too a "nap." Occasionally, my parents would allow us to go over to a friend's house on Sunday afternoon. Parents would be consulted and the friend, always from our church, would be deemed acceptable. We would be returned to our parents at the six 0'clock service. All good Baptists go to church twice on Sunday.

I loved those Sunday afternoons hanging out with the Sotos or Reynas -- they had cute older brothers so that was always the house of choice.

When my childen were growing up, we followed the same traditions -- "nap" included. Being Methodist though, we rarely attended church more than once on Sunday. We did however, usually have a big roast for Sunday dinner and created our own Sunday tradition of going to a Sunday morning buffet at the club on base.

But my children have lost those traditions. First, much to my disappointment and to my mother's criticism, my children don't go to church regularly. They don't take their children to church. They usually sleep in until noon, and breakfast might consist of frozen waffles or the occasional trip to one of the breakfast places like Dennys or IHOP.

There's no big Sunday dinner. Sunday afternoons are spent catching up on laundry and other chores too numerous to fit into a work week when both parents work.

Of course, things vary. Sometimes they go to the lake or the beach or movies. That's nice when they can take time off to be families.

My husband and I have fallen into a routine lately, I hear you do that when you get older. Saturday mornings we head off to a local place for a cheap breakfast then finish our chores. Sunday afternoons, we spend reading the paper over more coffee than we should drink at Panera, or scouring the bookstores in the area. We still go to church -- not as often as we should. For a while there we were caught up in the laundry and getting ready for the work week thing. Now we're trying to recapture Sunday afternoons. I think I'll have a talk with my children about those Sundays.

Sunday afternoons are important.

I miss my friends

A few months ago when the move from Oklahoma was looming, I dragged my feet. I didn't want to do it. But then I got here, settled in -- well sort of -- and have really taken to the beach and Florida.

Flying in from Tallahassee last week back into the Tampa Bay area, made me realize that I really am beginning to think of this as "home." The blue/green waters of the Gulf and the bay looked beautiful, as did the white sand beaches of the barrier islands and the peninsula we call home. I realized that I was to the point I could identify many of the beaches from the air. Home.

I love the new job. We love being around our granddaughters and our son and daughter-in-law. We love all the opportunities to see sports of all kinds here.

But what we don't have are our friends. I miss my friends. We love you all. I missed giving Kevy a big hug on her birthday. I missed listening to Cheryl talk about Savannah, or talking politics with the Johns and Ben. We miss the Gridiron gang.

I guess in order to make this truly "home" we'll have to start venturing out of our comfort zone and making more friends. But for now, I'll have to settle for promises of visits -- soon. The good news is that it's gonna be cold in other parts of the country soon, so they'll come :)

Caucus this

What do you have in common with Iowans? Or is it Iowians? You know, those folks who pretty much decide every four years who the next president is going to be, or at the very least who YOUR two choices for president will be. Yes, that Iowa .

According the latest U.S. Census Bureau reports, Iowa has 2.9 million residents, roughly about 1 percent of the U.S. population. They have 93,000 farms that grow corn, soybeans and hogs – lots of hogs. Almost half of all Iowa residents live in rural areas. Only 21 percent of Iowa residents have a college degree.

John Wayne, Herbert Hoover and Glenn Miller are all from the Hawkeye state. The nickname is a tribute to Native American leader Chief Black Hawk.

Almost 95 percent of Iowa residents list “white” as their race, and the median household income is $44,000 a year, near the bottom of the U.S. Census’ definition of “middle class” (20 percent of Americans who fall in the middle earning $40,000 - $95,000 a year.)

So what do you have in common with the people who play a big role in electing your president?

Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. But still why do most Americans “follow their lead” when it comes to presidential candidates? That’s right if a candidate wins in Iowa or New Hampshire – they are likely to go on to win their party’s nomination. Heck, just look at what happened with John Kerry in 2003.

Clearly most people are tired of it. State legislatures are trampling over each other to see who can schedule an earlier primary. But then there’s those pesky “national” folks who are trying to ruin everyone’s fun.

The Democratic National Convention just smacked Florida Democrats for saying they are going to hold their primary on Jan. 29, the same day as South Carolina . The DNC says if Florida holds the election that day, their delegates won’t count. That’s right, they WON’T count toward the Democratic nomination. Never mind that Democrats, who haven’t controlled either house of the Florida Legislature for some time, had little to do with setting the primary. Never mind, that a major constitutional amendment is on the ballot that day, sure to bring more voters to the polls. It won’t count.

Why? Well, because those national folks like tradition. And, tradition says only folks who live on a farm, with no college degree, in the Midwest can make a bigger splash in the presidential election. It’s in the rules. (Now, don't go all nutty about that last bit. I have friends who live in Iowa, and I like farmers. My dad was a farmer.)

Me, I’ve decided I might just vote for whoever comes in third, fourth or maybe even last in Iowa ’s caucuses.

When the sun goes down

So, I've been in a funk when it comes to blogging lately. So instead I'll share some sunset photos. Each day is different. Enjoy.

Unsavory Grace

When I first heard about the TNT show "Saving Grace," I was intrigued. I love Holly Hunter as an actress, and the show is set in Oklahoma City.

I'm watching, but it is getting more unbelievable and annoying. Okay, not that the premise of an angel appearing out of nowhere is believable neccessarily. But it's the show's portrayal of Oklahoma and Oklahoma City that's really disturbing.

The show is not filmed in OKC. That's clear to anyone who is from the area. And, then there's the fact that the show depicts Oklahomans in two ways: Well, first all Okies are hicks according to this show. And they are either 1. hard-drinking alcoholics with lots of baggage or 2. Pious church-going people with lots of baggage.

And, notice that OKC is also depicted as a cow town. Stockyards, yes, there are those in OKC. But heaven forbid some network actually admit there's an urban area in Oklahoma. That there's culture outside of the "Cowboy Hall of Fame." Yes, it's still called that on the show. I guess research isn't part of the script writer's job.

And though HH has always been one of my favorite actresses, I really don't want to see her have sex each and every show. Geez.

I had high hopes for this show. Not so much anymore.

Wattstax

In 1972, I lived in Abernathy, Texas. I was 15, living in a sheltered environment. My life revolved around the 45s spinning on my turntable, school, church, family and friends. Vietnam was a part of our daily lives, but my life was far removed from the turmoil experienced by others across the country.

In Texas, you conformed. In my family, you conformed. I had no desire to burn flags or protest a war that some of my older cousins were fighting in -- it was just part of life. My biggest ambition in life was to write for the school paper and make it to the Friday night football game. Marcia Brady was my idol.

Yea. Pretty lame.

A world away in the Watts neighborhood of LA, they were "remembering" the Watts riots that had taken place seven years before.


Hubby and I recently went to the Beach Theatre's screening of Wattstax -- a documentary including footage of that concert. We laughed at the fashion that reminded us of outfits we used to have "back in the day." And, we listened to these folks. I wondered where they were, these people who lifted their fists and shouted along with a young Jesse Jackson, "I am somebody."

A struggle that I was not a part of -- desegration touched my life only slightly. I didn't know about this other struggle and I somehow feel guilty and impotent at the same time. I feel guilty that I lived in my sheltered world and knew very little of the world outside of my own neighborhood -- or even across our small town in the area of town known as "the Flats" where many of the black people in town lived. I feel impotent in that there's been no turning point for the Hispanic community -- I'm not talking about the new immigrants to this country, legal or illegal. I'm talking about the Hispanic Americans, be they "Mexican" or whatever whose families/ancestors settled in this country centuries ago among the Irish, French, Germans, British. I'm talking about the ones who centuries later were still considered outsiders by those "American" people in the community.

I remember instances of understanding we were different than the Bradys. We spoke Spanish occasionally in our home -- my parents strongly encouraged us to speak English at all times so that we wouldn't have an "accent." When I was in first grade, I remember helping another Spanish-speaking student with something the teacher was saying. I repeated it in Spanish to the student. I was "caught" and sent to the office and paddled by the principal. I fluently spoke TWO languages and was punished for it.

We were the same as our neighbors, yet different.

I remember a high school girl across the street from our house. Marla. Marla was white, caucasian, etc. Our upbringing was very similar. Our fathers provided for their families through farming, yet moved the family to town for better opportunties for the kids. We cheered for the same team every Friday night. We loved the Cowboys and Tom Landry. We listened to the same music, and caught Cardinals games on the radio. We attended the Baptist Church. We ate Hamburger Helper during the week and roast or fried chicken every Sunday.

I know all that because that's Texas. It's what you did. We were all the same.


Yet, Marla NEVER spoke to me. Not when we walked down the sidewalk in the same direction. Not at school. I was Mexican -- or so I was told where I grew up. Never mind that Mexican means "citizen of Mexico." I've never been to Mexico. I don't know anyone who lives there. I never even knew what "Cinco de Mayo" was until I was older and lived in Okinawa, Japan and met a U.S. Marine Corps Colonel who just happened to BE FROM and a citizen of Mexico.

The only talk about civil rights that I ever remember at my home was the year my elementary school in Floydada, Texas was desegregated. The original plan was to move children from Duncan to the black school. I remember my parents were upset because the kids who were being moved were the "non-white" Hispanic kids. That changed and the black school was closed and all the students were eventually brought into all the schools. I didn't understand it.


A few years ago, I asked my mother about the "colored " and "white only" signs and how they affected Hispanics before the Civil rights era. She didn't and wouldn't talk about it. I know that not all hotels or restaurants welcomed my parents. But we don't talk about it.


That's why I've really taken to heart lately the journey that the Black community has gone through. I think in many ways, the Hispanic community still lags behind. Those of us whose ancestors came to this country along centuries ago, still havent' found a way to accept our differences, and still haven't found a way to find our equal place in the history and the future of this country.


More to ponder as I continue on this journey.

Times they are a changin'

Time has a way of slipping away. I know I've said that before on this blog, but sometimes it overwhelms you. For example; many readers of this this blog will remember the little redhead grandson of our college newspaper's advisor who terrorized people during a homecoming parade by throwing -- like a missile -- the free keychains we were using for promotion. That "little kid" will be a sophomore at Mizzou this year -- journalism. Go figure. Feel time slipping under you like sand, yet?

My oldest grandchild entered first grade this week. He's reading and wearing "Heelys" and just being a boy. Our granddaughter will start kindergarten this week. Wow. Wasn't it just yesterday they were babies. Time flies. Here's a few pics of the kiddos.

Vrrroommm...

I survived my first week back in the workforce. I did fairly well, considering that I had to get accustomed to wearing shoes again. They have this silly rule against flip flops.

And, I did something that I haven't done in more than two months -- drive. Most people don't know that I simply HATE driving. If I ever win the lottery, to heck with the maid: I'm hiring a driver.

Since I wasn't working and hubby's been hanging out with me a lot too, I simply became a passenger.

This week I got a crash course in Florida driving. Drivers here -- other than a few of us law-abiding (well mostly) regular drivers fit into several categories: Lost Tourist, Super fast SUV or German-car driving ASS, leisurely driving Beach junkies who can't see out their rear-view mirror for the boards or kids or both, and Old Farts.

Now, ya'll know that I'm in the membership recruitment list for AARP already, but I'm talking really old -- you know the kind who forget which is the brake versus the gas pedal. They come at you from everywhere as you are driving down the road. Watch out in parking lots -- it's probably like dodging bullets at the OK Corral.

And, it's not even winter yet.

Catch up

Baseball -- Yeah, Barry Bonds. Asterisk, my ass.

New Job -- Love, love, love the new job. Great people, awesome issues. Feel like I'm "making a difference," to be cliche

Beach -- I have NOT been to the beach since Monday morning. That sucks.

Football -- How about them Cowboys? I can't wait to go see a real life NFL game without driving 4 hours to get there, though, so I'll likely become a Bucs fan -- when they aren't playing the Chiefs or the Cowboys, of course.

Hubby's Job -- New one on the horizon. More on that later, let me just say -- you've heard of the company. Fingers crossed!

House update -- We found THE house. Needs a little updating, but for here, the price is actually great. Has a great separate house, we would convert into an awesome guest space, and a green house to feed hubby's habit of growing things. And, it actually HAS a yard, which many houses here don't have. Now, we have to negotiate, etc. About 10 driving minutes from the beach is the only "downfall." But about $100,000 cheaper than the small cottages we've been looking at here on the island.

Turtles -- We're still looking out for the nests on the beach. Recent report is that the 36 they've found so far is about it. Last year there were 106 nests. That's definitely a problem.

Talk to ya'll later.

Future newspaper reader

OK, so she's only interested in the sales ads...but Chloe has picked up Papa's habit of reading the paper every morning.

Loggerheads

We noticed on our way to the beach that the night was perfect. No wind, the ocean waves lapping quietly on the shore, glistening under the light of the moon that peaked out from behind the soft clouds. A perfect night.

Without thinking, we stepped off the boardwalk and followed the path to the roped off turtle nest that we had been watching for the past five weeks. It was a routine that had become part of our early morning walks and our evening walks on the beach: check on the nest.

We immediately noticed the shadows of people huddled around the nest. "I hope it's not some dang tourists, we're going to have to yell at again," I said. We noticed the hush and protective air as we got nearer and quickly recognized the Clearwater Marine Aquarium logo on their T-shirts.

"We'll have some babies tonight," someone said as we approached. We joined the huddle, carefully peering down into the small hole that had been created when the movement of the hatchlings moved the sand. You could see the small flippers and a head would pop up every now and then. We waited.

We all talked about the turtles, learned more about the rescue work the aquarium does. We were prepared to sit all night. Occasionally, someone would venture out from the nearby hotel, and eventually they would leave. A father and his son stayed. I don't think anyone ever officially introduced themselves. Yet, we sat, nine of us, huddled around a nest for nearly four hours.

"The birth" happened fast. The hole was larger now and it almost looked as if the small (two inches) turtles were bubbling over. One of the scientists, explained the procedure. The Loggerhead turtles would get a helping hand to the water. She would scoop them up and place them in a waiting bucket and count them (for research purposes) We would deposit them close to the water in a trench that we had dug just for this purpose. Some of us stood near the shore line, the rest of us stood as guards on either side of the trench. The small turtles -- 97 in all -- quickly followed their natural instincts, heading toward the water. We didn't touch or interfere, just watched.

Long after we were back at the house, showered and laying in bed in the early morning hours. We talked about the sight of the baby turtles hatching and being able to witness something so amazing.

Loggerhead turtles -- about one-third of all those born in the world -- are hatched on Florida beaches. There are 34 nests, and we'll be watching the other one down the beach from us. The risks to the baby turtles is high. Only one in a thousand survive to adulthood. But the Loggerheads live to be more than 100 years old. We're thrilled we were able to lend a helping hand of sorts.

We're still in awe.

Employment!

I swear finding time to blog is just nuts around here. Besides the beach -- I have picked up several freelance projects and have been writing like a fiend. AND...the big news...I'm employed. I'll start the first week in August for the Florida portion of a nation-wide "noncandidate" campaign. It's exciting and a worthy cause -- getting two issues: affordable health care and retirement issues -- in front of candidates this election cycle.
Yes, that's the job I really really wanted. I was shocked when I received the call that I got it. The interview went ok, but then I had the "writing test." It was storming when I started the timed test and I was absolutely sure that the electrical surges were going to fry my computer, so I was nervous. Add to that, two little girls walking into the office every few minutes to ask what I was doing. Aagh. But apparently, the stress worked because the folks liked what I wrote. Whew.

Gainfully employed, at least for a few months. I'm gonna miss the beach bum stuff, but it was starting to get old. (It's hard to shed my workaholic ways.) And, I'll still be able to peel off the shoes and sink them into the sand right after work each day. I love the beach.

So since I'm going to be so busy, that likely means I'll be blogging more. Go figure.