More or less in one piece

Thank you, well-wishers! The menagerie and I made it through the never-ending storm that was Wilma. Foxy woke me up at about 2:30am when it started to roll into town and we stayed up until it died down to 45 mph gusts more than 12 hours later. Lord, I thought it would never leave. It is loads of fun to traverse three flights of stairs on a broken foot to let out a small dog with an even smaller bladder every few hours while a storm rages outside. Loads.

Damage was surprisingly bad, considering that everyone thought this thing would just be a tropical storm when it hit here. Instead, we got a Category 3 storm that had a nasty "backside", as the newspeople kept saying (ha, Wilma had a fat ass). Foxy peed by a tree about three hours after the storm made landfall; two hours after that, the tree wasn't there any more. Power was knocked out all over the place, of course, and traffic lights dangled precariously from wires, if they weren't sitting in millions of pieces on the ground. Unfortunately, not every driver gets the whole "treat all intersections as a 4-way stop" thing, so driving to the store for more booze really is a life or death matter.

Hanging out at home in the dark hasn't exactly been my cup of tea, so this morning I packed up my essentials and my dog (who is also an essential) in order to spend the night at the nature center. The nature center, it should be noted, is usually the first to get power back after a storm, not because anyone thinks we are important, but because we are across the street from a prison and a mental institution/drug rehab center. Yes, we are in a great neighborhood; it's these neighbors, though, that allow us to be back in business.

Anyway, as I packed up my belongings by candlelight I knew -- I KNEW -- that by doing so I was guaranteeing that power would come back on today. Periodically, I called home to see if my answering machine picked up. It didn't all day until 4:55pm. Admin Assistant Extraordinaire compared it to waiting for a meal at a restaurant; as soon as you go outside for a cigarette, your meal arrives. Not one to favor the cancer sticks, I only kinda agree with her analogy ("Ewww, why would you want to smoke before a meal you are paying for?").

Since I went to all the work of planning my stay, I just decided to sleep here at work anyway. That's right: I chose to forgo my own bed in order to spend 36 hours at work. Woo hoo! Keep in mind that I did carefully plan this trip, so I have a lovely bottle of Pinot Noir sitting just to the right of my keyboard (okay, a half bottle of Pinot Noir). I have a grant due tomorrow and loose ends to tie up for our fundraiser this weekend, so more time in this god-forsaken hell hole (was that a little harsh?) is actually necessary.

The good ol' hell hole, by the way, actually sustained more damage during this storm than it did during Charley; it must have been that wide backside. We all reported to work as usual on Tuesday morning, and since I can't walk, I dispatched my lackeys out to the trail to check out the extent of the damage. I was already in a foul mood Tuesday morning because I lost my painkillers in my apartment that morning. (On the bright side, I have painkillers somewhere in my apartment for later enjoyment.) Plus, my lame-ass injury has made me feel even more useless than normal; I wanted nothing more than to clear debris (not "brush" like the prez), but I couldn't get out there, so that pissed me off. I'm also one of those people that likes to see things with my own eyes rather than listen to someone else's interpretation. Control issues? Perhaps, but for good reason. Here's why:

When the naturalists returned from the trail, I asked, "How was the boardwalk?" The condition of our 1/2-mile boardwalk trail is very, very important, for it is the site of our fundraiser this weekend, expected to draw about 2,000 people; I had to decide first thing Tuesday morning if we could still hold our event so that I could alert our sponsors and the media.

The naturalists said that the boardwalk was fine; trees had fallen, but the boardwalk was fine. So, I called up our people and our bicoastal director, who was dealing with major damage at his West Palm Beach house, to let them know that our event could still happen; the boardwalk didn't sustain any damage.

At the end of the day, one of the naturalists showed me the digital pictures they had taken on the boardwalk that morning. Imagine my horror when I saw picture after picture of railings ripped from the boardwalk by massive cypress trees (see above).

"'Fine?' The boardwalk is 'fine', you say?!? What about the railings? There are no railings preventing people from falling into the swamp!"

"Well, you asked about the boardwalk, not about the railings."

Oh, my bad. I assumed that since the railings are attached to the boardwalk that they form one entity, but apparently I am alone in that assumption.

And this is why I don't believe anything anyone here says.

At any rate, all of our outdoor animals survived being locked in the men's room for the duration of the storm. Don't worry, we didn't let the hawks, owls, bobcat, raccoon, and friends run wild in there; they were all in individual carriers. Well, at least that's what the people who work here tell me. Still, everyone made it through okay. I will be a happy, happy girl if I don't have to do another one of these EVER again. Hurricanes are a fucking pain in my foot.

Oh, for crying out loud

What the fuck, Wilma? First, you're so supposed to arrive Saturday night, prompting us to cancel massive fundraisers scheduled for the Nature Center this weekend. We even announced that we would be closed for the weekend, and we cancelled all field trips for Friday -- Monday. Yeah, it's not like we need the money or anything.

Plus, you gave me a major buzzkill when I got in my car Wednesday morning and heard that not only had you gone from a 2 to a 5 overnight, but you were the strongest storm ever recorded.

Then you decided to linger in Cancun and Cozumel, putting off your entrance until Monday night. Okay, fine, do what you want; at least I get Monday off work now. I can't be bothered with you any longer. You probably won't even be a hurricane when you finally get here anyway.

But, so help me, god, if I turn on the radio tonight and hear that you're not getting here until Tuesday or Wednesday or Thanksgiving. At that point, it will be on, beeyotch.

Speaking of beeyotchs, I had a very unpleasant experience in the Target parking lot about two hours ago. As I walked back to my car, I stepped up on the curb of one of the grassy medians -- and promptly twisted my ankle (or something down there) and fell off the curb and onto my knees. I scraped my right leg and ripped up my left foot pretty well (mmm, couple that with the ant and sand gnat bite scars on that foot, and I am one sexy lady); I also seem to have ruptured something in my foot as it is disgustingly swollen (I keep getting hotter) and I can't move it or put any weight on it.

What hurts almost more than falling is that a woman watched me fall as she chatted on her cell phone by her stupid electric blue Kia Sportage, parked next to my van. She watched me fall, watched me sit on the ground and cry, and watched me limp to my car, dirty, bloody, and swollen. When I got near her -- I had to since she was parked next to me -- she turned her back on me. Did she ever do the human thing and ask if I was okay? Mmm, no.

It's not like I wanted her to carry me on her back to the walk-in clinic or anything; a simple, "Are you okay?" would have sufficed. Maybe I'm wrong; I mean, I do say "Gesundheit" or "Bless you" (know your audience) whenever a stranger sneezes in my general vicinity. I don't expect strangers to do the same for me, but it is nice when they do. However, when you watch someone get hurt and bleed and limp, I feel like you should say something, even if it is "Have a nice trip?" That way you're at least acknowledging the other person. Am I wrong to expect a little empathy from fellow humans?

I gave her the finger as I drove past her (she did turn around to watch me drive away), and that made me feel a little better, briefly. My dad talked me into going to the walk-in clinic, just because they probably won't be open tomorrow (thanks again, Wilma). However, if my insurance doesn't cover it, I'm just going to go home, stick my foot into a bucket of ice, and break into my hurricane beer. Beer makes everything better.

*****

UPDATE: Turns out that the walk-in clinics were already closed for the storm that is coming on Monday, so I had to go to the emergency room at the hospital. I was shocked -- SHOCKED -- that I was in and out of there in less than two hours. I was so impressed with the ER staff that I've already written and sent a letter to our local paper praising them.

Anyhoo, I broke my foot. I broke my foot by, more or less, falling off a sidewalk. I now feel justified for flipping the bird to that lovely woman in the parking lot. I also feel justified in spending the next few days, hunkered down, drinking beer on the couch. If I'm not coordinated enough to navigate a 6-inch-high curb, I really doubt that I can handle my crutches, so it's best that I stay stationary.

And on a Wilma-note, one forecaster predicts that it will hit here. Dude, I'm not in the mood. Also, as if this isn't common knowledge, newspeople are dumb. I'm watching the local news, where there's a graphic on the screen with a line from Wilma to here with the phrase "486 miles" on the line. The newsperson helpfully points out: "Hurricane Wilma, less than 5oo miles away, but more than 400 miles away." Thank you, newsperson, as I am combining mild painkillers with light beer; I really did need you to point that out.

In this post, I say 'hoo-ha' and 'hot ass'

I took the liberty of extending the National Hurricane Center's forecast for this slow-moving beast they insist on calling 'Wilma'. Please note the red line: It's pointing at my house. No joke; the line leads directly to Fort Myers, right to the mouth of the river I live on. Cool.

Now, I know that this tropical hoo-ha could very easily fizzle out before moving into the Gulf, or, hell, maybe Wilma wants to be on Girls Gone Wild and plans on heading to Cancun. I don't know. I'm just incredibly impatient. If we're going to get a storm, I want it now, dammit. None of this checking the National Hurricane Center website three times a day for me. I'm a busy girl. I have phone calls to ignore, work to blow off, and tons of hot dates to go on.

Oh, hey, wait a minute...sorry, that last one is, in fact, not true. It's no matter; I wait for no one.

In the meantime, I have big plans to make. A few hours ago I sucked it up and bought my plane ticket to Costa Rica. I guess this means I'm going. Fortunately, I was able to find a travel companion, one that I've actually met. EB and I spent the worst summer of our lives together five years ago, working at an all-(rich) girls summer camp in northern Wisconsin. Oh, lord, I would need an entirely separate blog to explain the hell that was Summer 2000. I've been working so hard to repress those memories, but every so often I flashback to gangs of 13-year-olds bringing their 28-year-old counselors to tears through sheer brattiness. I credit that summer with igniting my fiery passion for booze.

In any case, we are going to Costa Rica and I am thrilled (if not somewhat surprised that my long dreamed-of trip appears that it may actually happen). I wanted to include some lovely Costa Rican visuals here, but nothing really tickled me when I searched Google Images. I did, however, find the picture below, which really pissed me off.


Seriously, who is taking pictures of my hot ass when I'm swimming? Gaw. There wasn't even a caption identifying me, "BPW & white thong hit the waves." I just want a little credit, that's all I'm saying.

Anyway, the big trip is February 20-28 -- you can still join in! After I looked at EB's itinerary, I do have to say that I have a better deal. Flying from Miami, I only have 2 1/2 hours of travel time, whereas she has 7 hours or so coming from SoCal (what is it with you people? You Californians seem to be everywhere I go). Whatever -- it's going to be a good time, thoughts of which will keep me going through these next few crappy weeks. Yesterday was my last day off until November 5th, and I guess you could say that I'm less than stoked. At least the lure of paid vacation will prevent me from quitting my job for at least the next four months. However, all bets are off when I return.

Your life now has meaning

I finally updated Lepidoptera Lady. Holla.

The Story of (Cheeri) O

Sweet Jesus, why are Cheerios so freaking good? Their whole grain goodness is just so irresistible, I find myself craving a bowl as I lay in bed awake at night...as I sit in traffic at redlights...as I count down the hours to my inevitable demise whilst staring out my window at work. In short, I heart Cheerios.

Despite my uncontainable hunger for the "o" (the Cheeri-o, that is; not the other "o") (although, I suppose there is a certain degree of hunger for that, as well), I seldom give in to my urge. I find cereal to be ridiculously overpriced, and I am far too much of an elitist (albeit, a poor elitist) to purchase the store-brand Whole Grain Breakfast O's. I want my "o" in a bright yellow box, thank you.

Additionally, there seems to be some additive -- some sort of addictive property -- in the Cheerio that causes one to consume several bowls in one sitting...at every meal throughout the day. Nicotine? THC? Opiates? I'm not quite sure. I just know that when I get home from work and there's a box of Cheerios in the house, I don't want one bowl for dinner -- I want four.

I prefer an unadulterated Cheerio. None of this honey-nut, apple-cinnamon, berry-burst, frosted crap for me. The thought of putting fruit on top kinda disgusts me (milk-soaked bananas? I'll pass), and I even shun sugar because it muddles that perfect oaty flavor. Just give me some skim milk and a spoon, and I'll be set.

True, true: there is a dilemma about what to do with the milk left in the bowl once the cereal disappears (<--you like how it just "disappears" rather than being "ravenously consumed by a madwoman"?). I've found that my solution to this crisis has not so much to do with my mood, but is entirely dependent on my income. For example, if I purchased my box of Cheerios on a credit card, then chances are that I will conserve my cow juice and slurp from the bowl, rather than pour a separate glass. On the other hand, if I did not have to take out a loan to buy groceries, then I will likely be Another Wasteful American, and pour the leftover milk down the drain. It's horrible, I know. Luckily (for whom, I don't know; cows?), I seldom have cold hard cereal-buying cash in my wallet.

But when I do, when I give in to the most primal of urges (well, perhaps, second-most primal), and I bring home a box of General Mills finest, I am a happy girl. From the dulcet plink-plink-plink as the first "o"s fall into the bowl until the last crunch leaves me saying, "Mmm, yeah, baby...that's the stuff," the whole experience satisfies me like few things can.

Can you believe I'm still single?

Skipping to Spinsterhood, One Blind Date at a Time

I may have mentioned this before (once, twice, maybe twelve times or more), but I am the only single person at work. I am not pleased with this situation. I tried to put a sex embargo on my staff (we are ridiculously, sickly close and always inappropriate), as in, no one on staff is allowed to have sex until I do. They laughed, especially the couple who got engaged last week ("Yeah, okay BPW. No sex at work, we can do that."). Sigh. I tried.

In my despair, I have gone on two blind dates in the past month or so. The first one, I'm ashamed to say, I met via Craig's List. The tagline on his post said, "Young single dad new to the area." Well, that sold me. I read his thoughtful, funny post and pretty much said, "what the hell" and responded. It should be noted that this is not like me AT ALL. I prefer to meet live people, usually when I'm drunk. You could say that's my M.O. Anyway, young dad and I exchanged emails and started IMing; then he wanted to -- gasp! -- talk on the phone and possibly meet. Oh dear god; I really hadn't been planning on that.

I put off the date as long as I could. I'm not sure why -- we had a lot in common and the conversation was so easy, but still the prospect of actually dating someone was more than I could handle. But I did relent, and we decided to meet at the very awesome Ringling Museum.

We had a great time, never running out of things to talk about. I had been through the art museum before, but I had a totally different experience with him because, being a professional artist, he was able to point things out in these giant Renaissance paintings I never would have noticed. So, that was cool. But I just didn't feel anything. I did feel kinda bad because I had responded to his post, so one would think that I was interested in a relationship. But one would be wrong.

I started screening my calls because I didn't know how to tell him that I wasn't "there", and things kinda petered out after that.

So, that was my first blind date. Last weekend, the prospect of another blind date reared its ugly head, and inexplicably, I jumped at the chance. I was at an event at the beach for work (yeah, my job is sooo rough), but no one attended this event, so I had a lot of time to kill. I started talking to a woman who does sea turtle rescue, and after about an hour of good conversation, she stops me mid-sentence and says, "My son would love you! He's 31, an attorney, and very cute. Can I have your card?" I obliged (almost gleefully so) and handed over my info.

Yesterday, the attorney called and asked me out for a drink. I ran around the apartment, full of nervous energy, changed my shirt five times because I wanted to wear the "right" thing. I mean, his mom and I totally hit it off, so he, obviously, was going to be my soul mate, right?

When I opened the door, I was a wee bit taken aback. Here's where you get to learn just how superficial I really am. For one, he looked much older than 31 -- not that I have any problem with age; my last "crush" was 53 -- and his super curly hair didn't do him many favors (it really was dangerously close to mullet territory). And he wore Sonny Crockett-esque wicker shoes. Immediately, I was not physically attracted to him at all.

We walk into the parking lot, and I ask, "Which car is yours?" to which he looks at me quizzically and directs me to the red sporty thing next to my green Ford Windstar minivan. It was only when we got to the bar that I realized that I had been riding around in a freaking Porsche. I'm totally not one of those girls who cares about what kind of car a guy drives; I'm simply uncomfortable around extreme wealth.

But that was forgotten when we settled into our wingback chairs at the cigar bar with some Stella Artois and Guiness. He was extremely down to earth and really funny. I admired that he quit working at a prestigious Miami Beach law firm to take some early retirement time and travel around the world. At one point, the lights came on in the bar, which really confused me. It turned out that the bar was closing and we had been talking for a solid five hours. I had no idea.

As we got closer to my apartment, I started to hatch my escape plan. Here I was, after a perfectly enjoyable evening, and I wanted to get as far away from this guy as possible. He pulled up in front of my place, and before he even put the car in "park," I was opening my door, saying, "Well, thank you for the night! Give me a call sometime!" But then he turned the car off, and got out, too, to walk me to my door (guys really are clueless sometimes). I kept a good six feet between us and didn't so much as shake hands with him as we said good night. When I got in, I saw that I had missed a call on my cellphone; the voicemail was from a bartender who had found the attorney's phone at the bar and called the last number dialed. I was a little bit happy that I had some assurance that he wouldn't be calling me, at least until he found his phone. I'm not a total shallow bitch; I did feel guilty for thinking that and fleeing him.

What have I learned in my dating endeavors? First, there has to be some physical attraction and no mullets for me to consider something more. More importantly, I just don't think I can have a relationship for a little while longer. I'm happier making out with some guy I just met at the beach, which I did on Wednesday. Again, I met a nice guy that was easy to talk to (and easy on the eyes), but this time, since we didn't meet in that most formal of institutions -- the Blind Date -- there wasn't any pressure. I mean, in all likelihood, I probably wasn't going to see this guy again. And that's fine by me. I very much enjoy just kissing someone who I know will never call me, or, god forbid, try to have a relationship.

I think it's just going to be me, Foxy, Hef, and Jezebel (the cat who lives under my bed) for a long time.

Can you handle the unbridled cuteness?

Last week a former staffer brought over four flying squirrels she had rehabilitated. Life in the office has not been the same since. Normally, we don't even name our animals because they're wild animals not pets, and we refrain from baby-talking to any of them (that's not to say we don't talk to them. Every time I walk by our aviary, I acknowledge the birds, as in "Hello, black vulture. How's it going?" I like to keep it casual). The flying squirrels, though, have brought out an ugly side of me that I didn't even know I had, a side that causes me to turn my "l"s to "r"s (it's, Herrow, instead of Hello) and that causes my voice to reach octaves that can only be heard by, well, flying squirrels. It's not pretty.

Costa Rica update: I may be going in February. There's still time to hop on board and join us!

Laptop update: CompUSA has now had my laptop for over 3 weeks (hence my infrequent posting) and they have no idea when it's coming back. I am uber pissed. I really resent making payments on a computer I don't even have.

Wisdom tooth update: I've got nerve damage. Hooray! I can't feel half of my bottom lip, part of my chin and half of my front teeth. At least I have an excuse to be a sloppy eater -- I can't feel food hanging off my lip. I'm a joy at restaurants.

Update update: I don't have time right now to publish a more thoughtful post, so I apologize for these inane "updates." Manana I'll post something ... else. (<--you like how I threw in some Espanol there? I'm practicing. Will someone tell me how I can get tildes to appear on blogger?)

Gators, gators everywhere

We have adult male and female alligators who have lived together at the Nature Center since 1991 (see the happy couple at left). Every spring, these two mate like crazy -- in the morning, in the afternoon, in the middle of laser shows (the planetarium is right next to their pond; the vibrations from the music in the shows (Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin) sends them, and the teenagers attending the shows, into breeding mode). Every summer, the female climbs out of the pond and into the palmettos in their enclosure, digs a nest, and lays a bunch of eggs (one female can lay about 50 eggs). And every fall, none of the eggs hatch; they are always sterile.

So, for years, we have thought that one, or both, of the adult alligators had a fertility problem. Then, a few days ago, staff came in and found 18 tiny alligators swimming around the pond. I can't say that we're exactly thrilled at this development because now we have to find homes for all these hideously cute creatures, but it's still pretty neat. I really have to fight the urge to put them in my mouth they're just so darn tiny and adorable (from nose to the end of the tail they each measure about 9 inches). The picture on the right is of a 1-day-old gator; I have to remind myself that one day that little one will be 12-feet-long, several hundred pounds, and that it will have the ability to eat me (but only if I harass it; alligators have a natural fear of humans).

No one knows why this brood hatched; maybe it was the full moon, or the return of Desperate Housewives (the gators were, after all, born on a Sunday) -- it's a mystery.

In other news, I'm looking for a travel companion to join me in Costa Rica in the near future. The other week, I decided that I needed to get the hell out of the country for a little while. I started pricing airfare to places I've wanted to visit, and found that Costa Rica is by far the cheapest to travel to (plane tickets from Miami to San Jose are half as much as those from Tampa to anywhere in the Pacific Northwest).

Then I ran into the many splendored, much-drooled-upon ex-boyfriend. Funny thing about the ex -- he left last weekend for Costa Rica for one month (or possibly more; I fully expect him to move there). We talked all night and then some, and he urged me to go down there, too. So, I started to consider this idea even more seriously, downloaded a passport application, and asked my mom for my birth certificate.

While talking to my mom about wanting to get a passport so that I can leave -- and before telling her my plans -- she said to me, "You know where you should go? Costa Rica. I just read about a woman who quit her job here, moved down there, openened a restaurant, and now couldn't be happier." Ah, you see? I was meant to go there.

The problem is that I don't want to go alone. I have never left the country and my Spanish is woefully out of practice. So, I'm putting a call out to anyone who is interested in going to Costa Rica for a week and a half or maybe more. Anyone. I'm not even kidding. I've set up an email address for all inquiries: themalachite at yahoo dot com. Tell your friends. I'd like to go in November (you know, as soon as possible because I can't stand being at work any longer, despite ridiculously cute tiny reptiles), but I'm flexible. My main interest is, of course, seeing as many butterflies as possible (shameless plug: I finally updated Lepidoptera Lady, so get thee over there) and traveling on the cheap, since I am poor. But I don't want to go alone, nor hinge my plans on an exboyfriend who I have no way of contacting.

Do you think you need to escape? Then email me! We'll have a great time! I'm loads of fun!