An unsexy hole in the water

We live in Florida, so it was inevitable: my husband and I are thinking about buying a boat. (Gas prices are way up! Perfect timing!)

Not only do we live in Florida, but we are in the Venice of America -- so called because of all the canals here -- and some people even consider this the boating capital of the world (although those folks haven't traveled much).

Almost everyone here has a boat. If you don't have a boat, then you make friends with someone who does, so you can go out on the water. At the very least you have a Jetski or Waverunner. After all, you have a rep to protect. You live in Florida! What will your relatives/friends/college roommates think of you if you live in Florida and don't even have a boat? Don't they just hand you a boat the moment you get a Florida driver's license?

I know enough about boats to quote the saying, "A boat is a hole in the water that you throw money into." As a teen, my family had what they call a cabin cruiser. My father accepted it as payment for a job he did. My stepmother hated it. It was fun, but something was always broken on that thing. Tied up at the dock along the canal behind our house, the boat eventually just became my sleepover spot when friends came over. When I'd go into a boating supply store with my family to pick up a part here or there, I remember seeing the marked-up prices on everything. Even a boating-themed plastic drinking tumbler was 10 times what you would normally pay for it. I guess the industry figures if you can afford a boat, you are rolling in the dough.

Which my husband and I are not. If and when we buy a boat, it will be used.

The type of boat to get has us discussing. Debating. Weighing pros and cons.

My husband is thinking about a Carolina skiff...



...when he's not dreaming about a cigarette boat.



(Yeah, right!)

I am thinking about -- SWEAR YOU WON'T LAUGH -- a pontoon boat.



Retired family friends who live on a lake elsewhere in the state have a pontoon boat, and they call it the AARP Barge (pronounced "arp barge").

Rather unsexy.

But a pontoon boat has lots of room. We could bring enough friends onto a pontoon to have a party. Or, with the right canopy and covers, we could camp on it. These boats typically have a barrier all the way around, which is perfect when you have a Man-cub. It can go in shallow water -- and Florida has lots of that.

Today, I was running errands with the Man-cub and passed a house with a pontoon boat in front. I called my husband to tell him about it. He actually stopped by that house on the way home from work. Turns out the boat is 13 years old, needs some new upholstery, a new battery, a new canopy and lots of pressure cleaning. And the owner is asking $5,000 "but will make a deal."

Um, yeah.

It makes my humble kayak (which I adore) look better all the time.

Bliss isn't on sale

I know this isn't a photo, but I just couldn't pass up this Publix ad! Maybe I just have a warped sense of humor.

Oh, to make someone's day!

It's not every day you get the chance to make someone's day. Unless you're a firefighter, or how about the lottery check writers, game-show hosts and cupcake bakers of this world. I believe bloggers, too, can make someone's day.

What I'm getting at is I have struggled with the question of exactly what to do with this blog, and I'm not sure I have a good answer. But I figure if I can give a handful of nice people (that would be you) the chance to score something free, then maybe my blog is making the world a better place. Or something like that.

So, behold: a giveaway.

Some nice folks provided me with a fun Veggie Tales DVD for kids to review, and another to give away! A friend's kid loves Veggie Tales so much that he is rumored to ask for one of the characters, Bob, by name. The latest Veggie Tales DVD, Tomato Sawyer & Huckleberry Larry's Big River Rescue, just came out last week, so you are practically getting a scoop here.

I watched Big River Rescue with my son, and it was fun. Really! I was even laughing out loud. And not just giggling. There were some quote-unquote cute moments, of course, but some scenes were downright funny. Click here for a trailer.

The movie is set along the Mississippi River in 1904. Tomato Sawyer and Huckleberry Larry are homesteading. In a few days, they are supposed to meet with someone from the government to prove they have been taking care of their plot of land for the past five years. Then, they will be given the right to own the land, when they plan to open their respective businesses -- a theme park called Jerkyland and a tax preparation office. (Um ... yeah.) An overbearing logger shows up and tells the duo to be on the lookout for a horrible giant gourd. It turns out the giant is an innocent, oversize boy who just wants to meet up with his mom (of course!), and the logger is a crooked man (vegetable?) who framed him for a crime he didn't commit. Huckleberry Larry wants to help the giant -- "Little Yimmy" -- reunite with his mom in St. Louis at the World's Fair, while Tomato Sawyer wants to stay to meet the government agent who will give him the deed to the land. The movie drives home the point that if you don't help someone in need, it's the same as being part of the problem. It wraps up with a Bible verse about helping people, but even those who aren't religious can relate to the verse about helping people. A Mark Twain-alike -- mistaken for Colonel Sanders throughout the movie -- acts as the narrator.

With vegetables as the characters and silly-nonsense songs thrown in for good measure, Big River Rescue is a movie everyone can watch and enjoy. Younger children will like the colorful characters and fun songs, and older children will enjoy the "helping others" message.

Here's the part where I can make your day! I have one copy of Big River Rescue to give away. Just leave a comment, and I'll use random.org to select a winner on Saturday.

Update: Random.org turned up number 12, and Harmony was the 12th commenter! She wins the Big River Rescue DVD. Congrats!

My weekend freakout at the museum

This weekend, my husband and I took the Man-cub to the Museum of Discovery and Science. We thought he'd enjoy seeing the kid-friendly exhibits. However, we found out one of the exhibits isn't very kid-friendly, and the Man-cub fell down a flight of stairs. Because I try to keep things light-hearted on this blog, I'll talk more about that later in the post. First, the fun stuff.

The museum has a special exhibit now through Sept. 7 called Frogs: A Chorus of Colors. We love frogs, and my husband fancies himself an amateur herpetologist, so we had to go and see for ourselves.











Would you look at the size of that frog?! I'm a little suspect. I don't think this one was real.

The frogs entertained the Man-cub only for so long. I don't think someone who's just short of three feet tall and doesn't understand the concept of camouflage (thank goodness!) can see the frog exhibits well.

So we quickly moved on, like the Gizmo City exhibit:



and the Runways to Rockets exhibit:



Then we went downstairs to the Discovery Center, which is an area where kids can play with tables of soapy water, the bow of a sailboat, climb through tunnels in the New River, fight over balls that look like oranges play in a make-believe citrus farm and go up a construction tower.

It was the construction tower that nearly did us all in.

The Man-cub stepped up into the structure, and climbed the stairs to the second level of the tower. I was right behind him. As soon as we got to the top, though, he wanted to go back down. A woman and child were coming up the stairs then, though, so we had to wait because the stairs are wide enough for just one person. Just as the stairs were clear, the Man-cub started down. I had to wait for the woman to pass me to get to the stairs, and when I did, my son started falling. You know how these kinds of things happen in warp speed and slow-motion at the same time? Yeah. That's exactly how it was. I couldn't get to him fast enough to stop his fall. I thought he was going to stop falling partway down because he paused, but then he kept tumbling down. I finally caught up to him just before he got to the bottom. He was screaming, and I was screaming -- and praying, too, that he hadn't broken his back, or neck, or an arm or something. I just held him while he cried, and my husband and I looked him over to see if he was all right. My husband gathered up the things that had fallen out of my purse on my way down -- I must have dropped it while trying to get to the Man-cub.

Fortunately, he is fine and appears to have only bumped his forehead. But it really concerns me that an exhibit billed for children six and younger doesn't have a hand rail on the tower that is at a small child's height. (Can I get a "Big DUH?!") The stairs my son fell down are metal, and the sides are protected by a bare sheet of Plexiglass. There is a rail of sorts at the top of the Plexiglass, but it's too tall for small children to reach. I know if there had been a hand rail there that my son could hold, he would have, because whenever he goes up or down the stairs he holds on if there is something there. These stairs didn't give him that opportunity, and I am writing the museum to tell them this is a horrendous safety hazard.

Our son seemed fine, but my husband and I were shaken up for more than an hour. I just kept visualizing the Man-cub falling again and again.

I'll be at the salon getting my new gray hairs touched up.

Moms on patrol

My husband is the one to pick apart the newspaper in the morning, and he pointed out an article on the front page of the local section about a group of moms who volunteer to patrol playgrounds in Coral Springs, where we live.

"Moms on patrol!" he chanted with mock importance. I offered him a fake smile and started reading.

Each Park Mom visits "her" local playground at least twice a week to check for things like whether the gates close, if there is graffiti or garbage and to see that the playground equipment is in good condition, the article says. There are about two dozen Park Moms, and if they find problems, they report them to City Hall. A hometown mom who is a nurse started the group, and the city seems to be happy to have extra eyes and ears looking out for the playgrounds.

"A good idea," I told my husband.

"Moms on patrol!" he chanted again.

There are several area playgrounds I take the Man-cub to, and one near our house seems to be particularly beaten up. There are loose boards with screws sticking out of them that are used to block off trees from the rubbery roofing material ground (which covers so many local playgrounds). For months, a swing was missing. There is still a hole in the ground where a tree used to be. At another park, I found -- how shall I put it? -- human excrement in a tube slide. A third playground was once covered in Sharpie graffiti, and a worker didn't want my son to play there until it was cleaned up, so we left.

If I were a Park Mom, how would these conversations with City Hall go?

"Hello, public servants! As a resident and a volunteer Park Mom, I wanted to tell you about some poop on a playground slide. Can you take care of that for our fine city? I was fresh out of biohazard gloves during my visit. While you're at it, how about fixing the tetanus-inducing planks around those trees? Do it for the kids. Can you also pass along a note to the county school board? Our children seem to be having some trouble in spelling. That graffiti would have gotten an F! Ha, ha, ha! Thanks, you're the best!"

Could be fun.

"Maybe I should sign up," I told my husband.

"Moms on patrol!" he taunted again.

On second thought, if I have to put up with that kind of teasing, this position should come with a badge. And maybe some duct tape, to cover my husband's mouth.

And now for something completely different

I am very disappointed today to find out my representative doesn't even really live in Florida. I think U.S. Rep. Robert Wexler has been a pretty good guy, but when you find out he's listing his in-laws' address and doesn't actually own property in Florida, it just creeps me out.

Apparently, members of Congress have to live in the state they represent. But Wexler really lives in Maryland, outside of D.C., and his children even go to school there. I know many politicians have homes in D.C., where they spend a lot of time because of their job, but they are also supposed to, oh, actually be from the state they're representing. Seems like a no-brainer.

Frankly, I don't want someone from Maryland representing me. If you don't:

- drive on the streets I drive on
- experience the same weather
- know what people are talking about at the mall, Publix or the beach
- get hit with the same property tax and home insurance increases

then how can you be representative of what I'm experiencing as a Florida resident?

Please, politicians, don't turn your job into a virtual-reality game. Get real, and get in the trenches with the people you're representing.

Lauderdale by the Sea

Beach, Lauderdale-by-the-Sea

You know you're the mother of a toddler when....

--You feel you're throwing away more food than your child eats (unless you eat the scraps)

--You've become so blase about freakouts that your motto is "Another day, another tantrum"

--Naptime is indeed the new happy hour

--You often think Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde had nothing on your child

--This morning's perfect hair twist is this afternoon's tangled, loose, ratty knot

--You hear "NO!" so much that you are thinking of teaching your child a different language altogether. Maybe Russian. Does nyet sound better than no?

What else would you add?!

Knock, knock!

Knock, knock!

Who's there?

Neighbor.

Neighbor who? What neighbor? I don't see anyone.... Oh, down there! Hello, Man-cub!

Yeah, that's a hilarious joke. But probably only if you were there.

See, my son has learned to knock on doors. And while watching him push his stroller around in front of our house, he decided to bolt up the driveway of our neighbor and knock on the door.

After trying to explain to Mr. Neighbor we weren't really trying to get his family's attention, my son made his way inside and found their four-year-old son's room full of toys. Toys the Man-cub hadn't seen before or tasted yet. Their son seemed happy to have a surprise playmate.

So I nervously chatted with Mrs. Neighbor, talking about their skylights, the boys and Hurricane Wilma. When my son found a stash of toys next to the family room couch and made a move to dump them all out on the floor, I said goodbye, mentioning our front door was unlocked and it was now dark, and, you know ... serial killers and all that.

Even though I was embarrassed the Man-cub invited us over to the neighbors' -- and yes, even though it was awkward -- I almost had a case of the warm fuzzies. One great thing about kids: they have a way of bringing people together.

Rule number one: Confuse your predator

My son loves a good chase. He loves to have me chase him so much that even when I'm not trying to chase him, he starts running away from me. All I have to do is take a few steps toward him, and off he goes. Great fun, let me tell you....

Today, I was chasing him around and around the house when he suddenly stopped and turned around to face me. This was different. I crouched down and looked at him, wondering what could be wrong.

"Hug!" he said, and gave me a hug. Then, a sweet little kiss from his tiny mouth.

"Oh, sweetie--" I started to say.

But then he was off and running down the hallway again.

Oh, he's good. Very good.

A night of "cooking"

MomsMiami.com had an event at Mr. Food No-Fuss Meals last night. Free wine and snacks were promised, along with a fantastic Mr. Food meal, so of course I was there.

The first stop was a place to put away my bag in a cute locker and grab an apron.



I know I should have ditched the baby/mom bag for a chic clutch! But it miraculously fit anyway.

My friend Guinevere came, and she is such a Rachael Ray wannabe pro that she assembled her quiche in like three minutes flat!



I was making the Chicken Picasso, which has several key ingredients, namely:



The directions at the Chicken Picasso station called for adding a half-cup of white wine to the recipe. And we can all assume I followed the directions down to the nth measurement, just for the sake of this post, OK?

Sometimes the directions were a bit anal:



But the Mr. Food people probably knew they would be dealing with people like me who are often too airhead-y to realize the label includes cooking instructions, which is key when you take your goody bag home. Everything was prepared and planned and clean and in that regard, waaay better than my own kitchen at home. Also, it didn't feel like cooking.

It wasn't all work, though. Everyone who came to the event got to munch on delicious snacks and meet new people. Here's little Guinny with Sherry North, author of Because You Are My Baby and other books.



After everyone prepared their meals (the Hula Hula Pork people got a lei, but the Chicken Picasso people didn't get a painting), it was time for karaoke! Chic MomsMiami.com editor Charlene Pacenti gave a moving rendition of I Will Survive and didn't even need to look at the words.



Naw, I'm just kidding. But maybe there will be karaoke next time.

Then we posed for a group picture, and I nearly knocked over Caryl Fantel, Mr. Food's own daughter! Oh, the shame! I'm probably on the Mr. Food black list and the MomsMiami.com un-invite list for the next event.



I'm the one in front who looks like a chipmunk. And I swear I don't have Mr. Food goodies stuffed in my cheeks. That blue apron is very slimming, but the face? It can't help.

There will be a next time, right?

Beach at twilight

Pompano Beach pier

Bite this

I went into Whole Foods for one thing (even though I know I can't do that). It might have been non-chlorine diapers or some lotion from Burt's Bees. It doesn't matter. I ended up getting some all-natural Italian soda, soy milk, dinner for the husband, some chips and other items -- including an apple that the Man-cub grabbed off the display and started eating. (The cashier gingerly took the pock-marked apple from me to weigh and price it, then gave it back with a forced pleasant face.)

I ended up with four bags of stuff -- and it cost more than $92!

Soon to come: a self-published cookbook on a week's worth of meals you can make with Saltine crackers....

Recommended loafing

Today, I hung out with friends. One of them was from out of town, so she stayed almost all day. I didn't even look my computer in the face until after 9 p.m.

And I highly recommend it.

What is the place of this place?

Today I was thinking about what makes a place its own place. (I was also thinking about my belly button. Not in a meditative kind of way, but just remembering how when I was pregnant with the Man-cub and my belly button sort of turned inside out, there was black stuff stuck to it and I asked a nurse if it was dirt or if that's what belly buttons are supposed to look like. She just smiled, which means it was dirt, and now I make a point to really wash my navel.) Now that there are shopping centers with the same chain stores from sea to shining sea, and now that housing developments look so similar that sometimes you can't find your way out to a main road, what really makes a place its own place?

Other than the humidity, heat, palm trees and wild parrots in my backyard, on a given day, how would the fact I live in South Florida have leave marks on my day-to-day life? The way I live might be the same as a woman in North Dakota for all I know. It's true my family might stock up for a hurricane at the beginning of hurricane season, and we've never had to buy snow tires. We have a pool, but from what I understand that's getting more common across the country. And thank you, Bealls department store commercials, I do get to wear my toe rings year-round. But I don't go to the beach much. My husband and I do make a pilgrimage to Everglades National Park once or twice a year (but only in winter, after a fateful mosquito-ridden outing one June).

Maybe summer isn't the best time of year to be asking myself how my life is different from someone's in North Dakota. Maybe I should wait until winter and then ask a North Dakotan. But no matter, right now I'm wondering what geography is doing to my life.

My husband's family has been in South Florida since the 1930s. For my husband, South Florida is the only home he and his family have ever known. Until global warming makes the ocean rise and swallow us up, my husband will probably still live here.

The Man-cub is the fourth generation to live in South Florida. Will he grow up as a South Floridian, or a person from just another fill-in-the-blank place?

And is there anything I can/should do about it?

Learning from others' mistakes

For the past couple days, my husband has been extremely interested in the news about the Ft. Lauderdale police chief's wife shooting at the chief. Like, more than any other news story I've ever seen him be interested in. He told me about what he heard on the radio on his drive home. He came home and flipped through the channels on TV. He went online to look for video. This morning, he read the latest in the paper. (News is everywhere, isn't it?)

I think my husband is just taking notes so it doesn't happen to him....

Lake Surprise

I didn't take this photo -- it was actually a postcard in a Jeep ad in Outside magazine -- but it's for real. When I saw the photo, I instantly knew where it was: on U.S. 1 between Homestead and Key Largo.

No need to drink and drive, or, How to get to know your neighbors

Last night, my husband and I learned just how big of a social outcast we are.

We take the Man-cub for a walk through the neighborhood every night after dinner and often stop to talk with people. (Or maybe, they stop to talk to us, because they see we have the cutest child ever born.)

One of our neighbors a few doors down was taking out the garbage or something, so we stopped to talk with him. After chatting for a while, he mentioned our son will have a playmate in a few months, when the darling baby girl across the street gets a little bigger -- in fact, he saw her just the other night when her parents brought her over.

I was instantly jealous. And I didn't mind that our neighbor knew. I let him know it had been months since we'd seen little Darling.

Our fine neighbor clued us in. "Do you guys, uh, like cocktails?" He went on to list the people on our street who come over to his house or who host evening happy hour. "We didn't know if you.... We didn't want to impose."

Impose. Happy hour. On my own street. And I didn't even know. While we're walking off our dinner, our neighbors are knocking back cold ones.

Apparently, my husband knew. He later told me he has seen Mrs. So and So walking down the street to another neighbor's, with a blender. Another time, someone with a glass of wine in hand. My husband and I don't drink much, though, so he didn't bring it up.

Then I saw Mr. Neighbor's wife leave the little Darling's house and walk over to us to say hello! She seemed quite, well, relaxed.

Two for one! No tipping. The chance to see incredibly cute babies and kids.

Does this mean I need to set up a bar in my living room?

That's what I thought he said

I got these supposedly washable markers for my son, let him play with them, freaked over the amount of ink that was coming out when he handled them, and put them on the kitchen counter where he couldn't reach (or see) them.

I didn't mention the markers to my husband, who later turned up with ink on his nice, conservative, with-matching-tie work shirt.

My nice, conservative, with-matching-tie husband explained: "I didn't know what they were. So I was shaking them and squeezing them and rubbing their soft little heads. Then I realized the soft part was a marker and I was like, Drop it like it's hot!"

I spit out my drink.

Where did he learn that?!

Thank God for neighbors with illegal fireworks

Well, thank you for all your votes. My husband's vote won out, though -- even more than my vote.

We went to Lion Country Safari. We arrived just in time for it to start raining. They say that's the best time to see the animals, though. But because you can't roll down your window while you're driving through, you can't photograph the animals with raindrops on the glass. For example, here are the lions.



So.

I did manage to get a good snapshot later, though.



Tonight we were going to see our city fireworks. But it got rained out.

Fortunately for us, we had at least four neighbors who were setting off fireworks. From our front yard, we had quite a show.



So all's well that ends well.

Tell me what to do this weekend

This is what happens when you don't look at the calendar:

Me: Honey, you're off work tomorrow!

Honey Husband: Why?

Me: It's the Fourth of July!

Husband: Already?!

Me: Yeah! And I'm so mad because it would have been the perfect long weekend to go somewhere but now it's probably too late to make plans so we're stuck here like a bunch of losers.

Husband: Speak for yourself.

(Apparently, we missed all the commercials, fireworks stands and red, white and blue cupcakes for sale at Publix that indicate a major national holiday is approaching. And my husband didn't get the memo at work. We're observant like that.)

Then I read somewhere that July 4 and July 3 are the first and second deadliest road travel days of the year, respectively. So I feel a little better about not going anywhere.

However, my man has pointed out we should still have fun. Because a day off work is still a day off work. We looked at several options -- everything from flying to the Bahamas to staying in bed in our pajamas all day. But we've narrowed it down to:

Lion Country Safari -- to drive through a giraffe's legs and take the Man-cub to the petting zoo

Museum of Discovery and Science -- for the new frog exhibit and an Imax movie

The beach -- because my car needs more sand

Kayaking in our own tandem, possibly at John U. Lloyd Beach State Park -- because my kayak is way too dry and lonely

Please vote, or give me additional ideas. Thanks!

Disc golf, anyone?

Sign at Tradewinds Park. Totally silly-looking if no one is playing disc golf (not to be confused with disco golf).

What does my blog want to be when it grows up?

Fewer than 60 posts, and I'm already wondering what to do with this blog, what direction to take it. I thought I knew what I was doing when I started Tropic of Mom a few months ago. But now, I'm not so sure.

As a former boss of mine might say, I have to see what this blog wants to be.