Craigslist: a great demographic representation

So I've never really used Craigslist before, but I'm searching for random items that I feel like I need--well, "need" on a temporary basis. Like an exercise bike. Not that we have any room for one, but I would totally use it every now and then. My prediction is that it would go over just like D-Man's had-to-have guitar. It's fun to use for 2 hours until you realize it's a lot of work to make the desired things happen. Nevertheless, it's on my list.

Any who, here's some frequently appearing Craigslist crap for the Sarasota/ Bradenton area:

• Walker, 4 wheel with hand brakes
• Walker and shower chair
• Jazzy Pride 1121 wheel chair
• Pronto 41 mobile wheel chair (what do you do with a wheel chair that's not mobile?)
• New folding walker
• Walking cane VERY NICE
• Etc. you get it.

Yes, this is the land of canes and crutches...Glad to have that sense of place confirmed by Craigslist. Wish me luck with the bike.

Oh Julia...

I did pretty good in Julie & Julia last night. Knowing all of the carcasses I would view, I still managed to really enjoy the flick. Meryl Streep, who always personifies characters like no one else's business, was as brilliant as ever. And the affection she and her husband had for one another was sweetly and delicately portrayed, with no unnecessary flashiness. Good taste, good taste. In the end, I slightly questioned the health of Julie's obsession with Julia, but felt that knowing Mrs. Child would have been a riot.

So, here's to you Julia. You were really something...and I never knew about your scientific inclinations. This "primordial soup" edition of your show is so much beyond the mere label of entertaining. It's a bit like The Twilight Zone mixed with 4th grade science class. (Watch out for her banging the knife for emphasis...and then pressing the blade in her hand...) Bon appetite!

Mowing the Lawn = Torture?

I wanted something special to commemorate the 200th Gropius post, but instead I'm marveling at the lawn mowing induced torture we impose on D-man every week. We don't live on the Biltmore Estate--in all honestly, it's a 40 minute job at most. And hello, we pay him.

In addition to his drawn out mumblings and frustrated hair grabbing, this is the typical sequence of excuses/ delays that play out each and every weekend:

• In the evening: I don't feel like it, I'll do it in the morning.
• The next morning: I'm just getting up--I'll do it.
• Before lunch: It's too hot, I'll do it tonight.

And today, a new one:

• The grass is wet. I don't like it when the cut grass sprays up and sticks to my legs.

Oh, sweet procrastination. It's a habit we pick up all too early.

The Wienie that Never Was

When I hastily opened the Morningstar Farms package of "Fake" Italian Sausages, I thought I read that 4 minutes in the microwave was required.

Three minutes and 50 seconds into the microwaving process, the indescribable odor and smoke--along with 4 alarmed co-workers--all led to one conclusion: I had cooked the living hell out of a piece of textured vegetable protein shaped like a wiener.

One end of "the wienie that never was" had turned to a soupy black explosion, sort of like the campfire marsh mellow that ignites on the end of your stick when you aren't paying attention. After the cooling period, the wienie grew hard enough to break a window. It was a damn shame I didn't have my camera to capture this moment in time...

One by one, employees from all corners of the building streamed into the break room to inquire about the source of the free-floating smell--a combination resembling burnt liquorish, a natural gas leak, and steamed brussel sprouts. Not only did it engulf the break room and far reaches of the second floor, but it infiltrated the clothing of anyone present and wandered down the stairway.

Alone and sorry about all the commotion, yet finding a strange sort of poetic justice in my downstairs office, I thought, "Yep. Karma's getting back everyone who has made fun of my fake meat lunches all these years."

When 1 minute is the microwave limit, 3 minutes 50 seconds is one hell of a trip. And so was the rest of the stinking afternoon.

Just wondering...

...why it is that

• My car suddenly seems invisible on U.S. 41, since a variety of motorists insist on merging right into my lane and on top of me, forcing me to slam on breaks, swerve and honk like a mad woman?
  
• The wavy words I have to type to prove my legitimacy when posting blog comments and reserving tickets are getting so distorted that I have to try several times in order to get them right? Half of the featured "words" are the strangest things I've ever seen and I have no idea what graffiti stained rock they were dragged out from.
  
• I have weight loss mavens and women who are doing terribly racing things following me on Twitter? Blocking them is time consuming and I'm wondering how in the world I attracted them in the first place, with my unoffensive tweets about environmental news, social media and the Rays. Honestly.
  
• Whenever I finally get enough motivation to exercise at night, boom: there's a thunderstorm? Don't get me wrong, I know it's late summertime in Florida, and there will always be something comforting about low rumblings and rain, but really...
  
• People are still out to trip me up for being a vegetarian? No, I don't wear leather. Yes, I would freeze a Cuban tree frog because they're an exotic species destroying our wildlife. No, I don't eat anything that used to be alive. No, eggs aren't alive...they're just chicken periods, completely unfertilized. Yes, I've been a veggie for more than 6 months--17 years to be exact.

Yes, I have many questions. It's good to stay inquisitive.

Big, Rich and Ugly

My other half is the country music fan. I can tolerate some of it. Others like the Dixie Chicks and greats like Patsy Cline and Jonny Cash are on my A list. Love 'em. Most of the other country, aaahh, let's just say is not my cup of tea. BUT, I have respect for what they do and the fact that so many people enjoy it.

When the boys from Big & Rich stepped on the portable stage last night after the Rays game (awesome, by the way), I immediately knew there would be trouble. John Rich was wearing a full length fur coat.

In the same way I don't cram my vegetarianism and warm, fuzzy yet extremely protective feelings toward animals down anyone's throat, I don't appreciate a lack of regard for life being shoved down mine. Aside from all of the other fur issues--which I'm sure you don't care to read on Gropius--IT'S FLORIDA IN AUGUST. To me, it was a pretty strong statement. And my statement to you, Rich, not only do I find it disgusting, but by the way, your music is soooo less than impressive.

Throughout the show, Rich's conservativism was overwhelming to the point that my urgings to use the ladies room were finally recognized and the welcome visit outside the seating was prolonged in Tropicana Field's vacant hallways.

What about the other guy--the "Big" part of Big and Rich? Part of me sort of liked "Big" Kenny Alphin and what he had to offer. He literally vacated the stage during some of the more...conservative...aspects of the performance. I just found this article from Access Altanta and it explains a bit about the duo.

Apparently, each is pretty polar opposite off-stage too. Alphin is an "eighth generation farm boy from Virginia" who has a big heart and is involved in charities like Hope Through Healing Hands, helping the underserved access medical care. Now that's what I'm talking about.

About Rich, Access Atlanta has this to say, "Politics aside, Rich has a tendency to get into conflicts that often end up in the gossip columns. He was involved in a neighborhood dispute when he bought some prime Nashville real estate and started construction on a giant house that irked the neighbors."

You don't say...

Now regrettably, this posting will no doubt result in GoogleAds for Big and Rich generated through keywords on my blog, but please approach with caution.

Back to School Night: The Nightmare Returns

Tomorrow is back to school night, when parents are once again put through the nightmare of junior high--or "middle school" as they now call it.

We're corralled through the periods, moving from classroom to classroom, traveling through the schedule of the full day our little innocent tweens will experience. Yeah, innocent. Walking through crowded hallways of kids who glance at each other with that snide look meaning you're either too short, too fat, too thin, too ugly, too much like your older brother, too dressed like your mother, too scholarly, or too boring, it reminds one of how judgemental this age is...and how, sweet mother, I am sure as hell glad not to be a young teenager. (That was the clean version of the "too" list, by the way.)

I am creepingly aware of how differently our 13 year old "boy" talks around his friends than he talks around us. I have to wonder--how bad is it? Are his conversations like a roll from Stand by Me? I'm completely not ready for that.

Random things I remember about middle school:

• If someone lit a match in the locker room after gym class, the entire school would almost certainly go up in flames as a result of the hair spray saturating the air.
• There really was a shop class, where all of the druggies managed to hang out all day somehow. (Husband verifies this at his school more than 500 miles away from mine.)
• Everyday Mr. Gaffney sweat so much in front of his 8th grade civic class he had to use a paper towel to wipe his head.
• There were 2 lunch periods. I lived in fear at the beginning of each semester of getting stuck in one and having all my friends in the other.
• My newspaper teacher was a crazy biotch. She publicly executed me for misspelling the world upon as opon.

True, I'm only covering all the bad stuff. But the point is, sometimes, like tomorrow, I'll feel especially grateful to be past the Member's Only, jelly bracelet, zip your jeans on the side stage. Only, this time I get to experience it again but vicariously with slightly less information, like I'm fumbling around in the dark. And seriously, I know things have gotten much worse since my days at Carmel Junior High.

News flash: It's bad to waste a volunteer's time

My temper feels a little heated tonight. I may get my red head fired up from time to time, but it's usually for a good reason. See, I'm no martyr, but for the third time in very recent history, I have gone out of my way on an evening or weekend to work off my creative petutti at the request of a local nonprofit (three different ones), only to find out either...

• a. they have also asked someone else to do the same thing and forgot to share that, or
• b. they weren't really sure they wanted what they asked for after I had gone to the trouble of following through or
• c. they want something vastly re-done because they accidentally left out a major part of it.

I totally don't mind volunteering my time. I need to volunteer my time. We all need to. (In fact, I spend most of my free thoughts wondering if I will ever do enough to earn my place on this earth at this time...we're here to serve baby.)

BUT, and here comes the but, if you don't have your mess together enough to be courteous enough not to waste other people's time, don't even ask for help. Ironically, each of these charities are king whiners about never having enough volunteers. I wonder why.

Young People, Old People...Come on Out

Disclaimer: Even if you do not have the slightest interest in baseball, you may enjoy this post.


Since my newly found love for baseball (and most specifically the Rays) has emerged, I've spent a great deal of time trying to convince friends they should come with me to the games. Friends who finally say, "Jesus! It's just not my thing" or "Watching baseball is like watching paint dry." Ok, ok, I get it. And I totally respect that.

It's just that... (yes, I'm still trying)...they make it so entertaining once you're there. I have to give it up for the set of event planners who are lining up the exciting "extras" of every home game, like last night's sci-fi theme, where you can see storm troopers dancing to the Beastie Boys.
And the ongoing race between Sierra Mist, some cola and a water that looks like milk. (One day a 40 of King Cobra will be included.)

And the very rocking B-52's. I realized what I like so much about them, other than the "different factor," which I'm always game for. It's the fact that they're so darn organic in sound and movement. They just look like they're having the times of their lives and couldn't give a damn, Scarlett, whether they're playing for 10 people or 1 million. Great energy there. I would definitely go to see them as a solo act.

Which brings us to the team. Seriously, these are some adorable and talented boys. For the first time, I really understand how it feels to want a team to win.

...Just like the pubescent boy sitting to the immediate left of us who was over-anxious to try out his deepening voice over and over and over again.

So here's a morning simulation for you. Pretend like you're emitting a low, raspy growl. Now try to talk in that fashion. Now pump up your volume, as if you're trying to communicate with a neighbor...in Arcadia. Now keep doing it for 4 hours. And bang some seats around. You get it. It was amusing if anything.

But the long and short of it for me: it's especially nice to see young people, old people and everything in between elevated by the same entertainment, which is simply good, clean fun. Come on out to the ball game people. You'll have a good time. And Gropius is receiving no compensation for this little viral endorsement. Promise.

A Little Rays Refreshment

What can I say about the week? It's been a long one. Long meaning "really good" and long meaning "tiring" and long meaning "when the hell is the weekend?" Saturday is here and I have a grand assortment of cleaning, laundry, errands, back to school shopping, work-work, and other mundane but essential tasks.

But tonight, I'm making the trek with PLRH to the Rays game. A girls' nite.

Last night I ended up with a pomegranate martini (highly recommended, and for only $3, how can you lose?) and spinach/shroom/cheese dip after getting shut out of the tiny sold-out theatre Lakewood Ranch set up for Julie and Julia. Sitting outside at McAllister's within 10 feet of the sports memorabilia store, D-Man couldn't resist a walk down there.

The result: the big birthday money purchase-- a Jason Bartlett autographed baseball. Gotta give it to him, he held on to the cash for nearly 2 weeks. Two years ago, I would have thought the ball a ridiculous waste of money, but today I'm a changed girl. Would you hold it against me if I told you that I was even contemplating a personal purchase of a signed and framed Pena photo? It would look soooo nice in the office.

After tonight's game: the post concert with the B-52's. There's Love Shack, and um, you know, some other songs. Like... I'll have to get back to you on that. I honestly can't figure out what it is I love so much about them, since I can't think of another B-52's tune, even if I meditate for half an hour. Maybe it's just the freshness and out of the boxness (a Gropius invented word) they exhibit while still staying clean. Should be fun.

Although I'm not totally digging the "sci-fi" theme that's also part of this evening, it will most certainly make for interesting photos on the old blog tomorrow. Stay tuned.

The Power of Spontaneity

I'm so lacking in a healthy dose of spontaneity these days. It's the built-in routines embedded by work and responsibilities along with the minutia of daily requirements that stand in the way of randomness.

Ever find that as you get older, the regularity of your existence increases with such stealth that you don't realize how "schedulized" things are... until pretty soon, you know exactly what's coming every 7 am through 10 pm? The only variable becomes the dreams your sleep will conjure. And more often than not, they're nothing you remember because you're too damn tired.

With this, I cannot tell you how totally refreshing it was to take off from the professional development conference in Boca Raton on Monday with a group of girls and make the random, sudden decision to drive to Miami and have a little South Beach adventure. With four of us in the car, we each had a slightly different reaction to the trip's interesting side steps, which introduced humor, candid conversation and camaraderie. Sound cheesy? It totally wasn't.

Sure, we saw the usual assortment of freaks, but nothing really surprising. We didn't do anything your grandmother wouldn't do, but the unplanned journey was funny, only slightly dangerous at times and off the original map for the day. Holy Pete, I appreciated that.

Now before the powers of "ask and thou shall receive" come down to provide a set of tragically unexpected events, let me confirm that I appreciate GOOD spontaneity. Seriously. I'm not asking for anything big. Just a reminder every once in a while that I'm not a victim of routine.

My New Home at the Neighborhood Vet

Maybe I should just sleep at the vet. I'm there all the time. I could not live without Flanders--she's one hell of a pooch. But I swear, every five minutes she needs to go to the vet. She's always had a plethora of skin problems, who could forget Gary the head lump with its own personality (see post op from a few years ago at left), a lump on her behind, and most recently, two ear hematomas that have taken the two of us to the far reaches of sanity.

The dog doesn't have a flea on her and has allergy shots every three seconds. But she hasn't stopped scratching in the past 9 days. So this morning's visit to the neighborhood vet (barely $100--thank goodness) sent me home with six, yes SIX, different medications for what is apparently a fungus/ mite infection on her skin. Gross.

The old man vet is a trip. The office looks like a rat hole, but everyone there is super nice and the vet has been practicing since before Christ. One time he gave me a friendly lecture about how I shouldn't be a vegetarian because he doesn't know any vegetarians past the age of 50...and therefore, vegetarians don't live past the age of 50. Hmmm. If it were anywhere else, I would be greatly offended. But given the humor of the unorthodox medical advice from a dog/cat doc and given the heartfelt place of its origin, I just smiled.

I know Flanders will totally dig me shoving 2 different pills down her throat, adding another crumbled pill in her bowl, dropping some rancid liquid from a mysterious homeopathic looking bottle in her mouth, spraying her with something that resembles 409, and sponging her with yet another concoction. She's probably thinking, "Honestly. I was better off on the street. Why did I go with this crazy person 10+ years ago?"

Things I Didn't Know Would Happen Today...

Little did I know that today I would...

1. Eat pizza for the third time this week. Although it's without a doubt one of my favorite comfort foods, enough is enough.
2. Tear a ginormous hole in my skirt at work and literally have to staple it together to get through the day.
3. Pay $18 for dry cleaning two garments.
4. Read the rants of two local waring publications on Facebook. (I'm totally with you SRQ.) Here's a direct link.
5. Unfriend someone on Facebook I had previously unfriended and accidently friended again. (Too much ultra-conservativism shoved down with every status update.)

No, not the most exciting day, but you know, it's life.

Quite Possibly the Best Movie of ALL Time

Last night was Movie Night at work. A few weeks ago, we posted a blank paper on the break room fridge and everyone had a chance to suggest the movie they'd like to see. We then voted on SurveyMonkey. The loser ran off alone, and the winner followed those footprints toward Gilder...

That's right: The Princess Bride. Who would argue that it's the best movie of all time? Maybe you. If so, I want your fave.

Fencing, fighting, torture, giants, escapes, true love, miracles...what more could you ask for? (Doesn't sound too bad? You'll try and stay awake?) If you haven't watched this Rob Reiner classic in a while, it's time. It's a real feel-gooder that will make you believe in love again and awaken your senses to hilariousness.

Next up on October 1st Movie Night: Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.

Art Rampage

Freshly inspired by the galleries and picturesque vistas from our July vacation, I'm ready for more art in the house. Husband and other family members suggest that this purchase from a gallery in Cedar Key is a little too bright, but I love it. I couldn't take my eyes off in its gold painted frame hanging among other more typical pieces.

Finally in for framing are two watercolors I purchased for husband at Southeastern Guide Dogs' gala more than 2 years ago.

Today I dragged out the old acrylic paints, fan brushes and Filbert brush for my own depiction of the wide green/blue marshes that have decorated the past week for me.

I miss art in my life, and realize that most of the time, I'm too stressed to really enjoy it. Hoping the new colors on the walls will help keep it alive for me.

The Backwoods Boat Ride

[Side: Can I just preface this by mentioning that I am from North Carolina and am not insensitive to assaults on the "rural and uncultured" South, which is many times, far from accurate?]


Boarding the sunset cruise at Cedar Key, there was the usual air of expectancy. We might see a dolphin. Watching the sun disappear over the endless expanse of the Gulf will be beautiful. The serene vision of birds making their way to islands for nighttime roosting will be peaceful. Maybe we'll meet some neat people, who love nature and appreciate the calmer things in life. You know, all that stuff.

I was miffed when our "nature guide" kept referring to the various heron species as "herring" (a type of fish). And even more perturbed when he pulled the boat over to an unidentified object which turned out to be a pelican that died from fishing line strangulation. Captain uttered not a word of instructive words to share the dangers careless fisherman pose to wildlife. Instead, he just pulled away.


But these two irregularities don't begin to touch on the company we shared on this little marine adventure. It took mere seconds after leaving the dock to discover the strange Kentucky flavor in the air. We were surrounded by no less than 9 members of the Backwoods family--several generations apparently, and not entirely distinguishable by sight alone.

Smushed up closely together on a slow moving, overbooked pontoon boat, I nearly jumped overboard on more than one occasion. Instead of recreating the experience for you, here's some select dialogue which we not only witnessed, but were asked to participate in:


PART I

• Grandpappy: "Yeeep. I done saw one 'o dem water speeckets today from da pier."
• (My husband): "You mean a water spout?"
• Grandpappy: "Yeaaaah!" (followed by a crunching, sheeshing sound that was a laugh, I think.)
• Mamma: "You shore it wu'un a dawnphin...spoutin' it's air up?"
• Grandpappy: "Sheeeeeiiit, woman. You think a dawphin can spout 40 feet in da air?"

We nearly died when the hum of the engine died down to nothing as Captain stranded us for 32 minutes for sunset. Every redneck camera in North America came to the bow like it was the last sunset on earth...and the first they'd ever seen. If it hadn't been cloudy, we would have been trapped for another good 15 minutes. But the Gods were looking down on us that evening.

PART II.

Backwoods kids are flying all over the boat, nearly going over the railings before a "responsible" adult reaches to pull them back by their life preservers. (This was our 13 year old son most of the time.)

• Mamma: "Well, they my grandbabies (referring to Bubba and a little girl, whose name I regrettably didn't catch), but they call all of us 'Mamma.' They call her 'mamma' and they call her 'mama' and they call her 'mamma.' They just call hewum daddy."
• Grandpappy (apparently speaking to another child sitting on the bow of the boat):
  "You think you a hot dawg seeetin' up thare, aintcha?" And then, "Hey there, hot dawg. Hey there, hot dawg. Hey there, hot dawg. (This was repeated 27 times within a 30 minute period; the kid probably felt like a pet parrot. The urge to swim to an island like an outcast raccoon has never been so strong.)

Just multiply this times 2 hours.

I ended the boat time by wrapping a two dollar tip on a business card from a local art shop on which I had scribbled these words: "It's heron, not herring." Husband, D-Man and I all hopped off the boat and high-tailed it to the car like a wild elephant was on our trail. We never looked back. And a cigarette never seemed so good.

I will say that seeing the Frigate birds was a real plus. Yeah.