I'm Here!

Yes, I'm alive. And it's not that I haven't had things to share on Gropius, it's that the things I've had to share are...ah, shall we say, the type of things that can get me into deep doo doo. Things certain individuals might be able to guess like...

1. Is Gropius talking about ______ [this person/situation]? Yes, I am.
2. Wow, is it possible that Gropius is thinking about taking _____ [drastic action]?
3. Is Gropius considering not giving Halloween candy out this year? Okay yes. I was. I'm just not in the mood. (But of course I folded and invested the mandatory $40 in candy and special treats for the kids I like on our street.)

And yes, things have been rather busy at work. I haven't been doing this:

Is there a reason we continue to buy bananas every week?

The Landings: Pure Comedy

I miss the days of living in the Landings neighborhood here in Sarasota. ...Not quite enough to want to be back there, but the regular comedy provided by the neighborhood rules, the insanity of "neighborly" aggression and residents terrified of nature were pretty much unbeatable. Just a few of my fondest Landings memories include...

• My father being woken up at 2:30 a.m. by the guard house to a warning that we were breaching the neighborhood covenant by mistakenly leaving our garage door open.
• Residents calling the cops to remove an alligator in one of the neighborhood wetlands...just because it was there. (This was a frequent occurrence.)
• Countless $100 fines for brother being "caught" on the nature trail at night.
• A resident claiming that kangaroos came out on the streets at night. And they were big.
• Having a woman stalk me in her car to see if I would clean up the defecation of my now deceased (and legendary) yellow lab...even before he stopped to take one. The second the act originated, she started screaming wildly, "You gotta clean that up! You gotta clean that up!"

My bro (now in Texas) is at home with a new baby and apparently bored to the point of checking out the newest Landings news online. So happy to hear a report that things are still just as hilarious as they were years ago.

In the recent Landings news, we have reports of the security guard being summoned by a homeowner to clean up dog poo that a walker failed to pick up and a call from a neighbor concerned about a woman sprawled out in her driveway...who was just drunk, for the love of Pete, and just wanted to spend the night outside. All I have to say is, mind your own feaking business and learn to deal with poop in life--literally--people!

It's still a damn shame we're not part of the excitement anymore. And like always, I wonder how the residents would react if a real tragedy hit, God forbid. Thank goodness for the entertainment provided at Landings online.

The Burlington Hoax: Just a Woman Who Wanted to Be a Hero

I'm not a huge fan of hoaxes--especially if someone gets hurt in any way, shape or form. But something about the Burlington Coat Factory Fake Lotto Winner piques my interest. Even if you cannot muster a smile, surely you can admit this woman's originality and execution of a well thought-out plot is something on which to marvel.

I do feel bad for the people who needed a helping hand and were deceived by the false promise of free winter clothing. It's not nice to believe an angel has arrived only to find out she is a little...unstable.

But somewhere inside I express a subdued rooting for our hoaxer, who managed to carry out this plot after planning every detail so clearly. She had an intention and followed through--more than I can say for many of us who go about our daily lives in a more balanced state of mind. Was the point that she really wanted to be an angel more than anything? She led herself to believe it could be so. Don't we all want to be that person? She must have felt great, if only for a brief few hours.

Of course when it was all said and done, she was arrested and charged with "inducing panic." Oops. Never guessed it would end that way. But seriously, this gives us something to ponder about our own desire to do good and be good--especially when we don't see a way that we can.

Permission to Chill

This weekend I let myself into the door of relaxation, and although I thought about work, two boards and a few unfavorable specks of crap in life, I didn't indulge any of those details for more than fleeting moments at a time.

I literally watched life flash before my eyes on Facebook with all of the mid-October happenings around town, but chose to stay still.

The excitement this weekend was limited to a gorgeous black snake I caught after it was sighted fleeing from the lawn mower. Letting it down in the grass, the speed of his climb through the corner yard shrubbery was exhilarating somehow.

A cool breeze--almost edible--came through the windows and my Saturday nap was something I didn't feel guilty about. Afterward I saw palm warblers land in a disorganized but perky group in the backyard, flitting about the fall garden as they picked off insects. I noticed the bird feeder emptying without seeing who landed there to eat. And I finished a painting of Cedar Key I started several weeks ago.

The sensation of a cold nose and cheeks on a Sunday morning Robinson Preserve walk reminded me that there is a world beyond summertime. The windy change felt invigorating and calm to me at once.

After struggling to get my buns outdoors for exercise for the past few weeks, I'm finally feeling the rush of physical exertion tugging at the mind so that it's no longer a forced action but one I look forward to. Yes, the cooler weather helps and so does a mindset that gives me the permission to just chill.

The Anal Concert-Goer

Yes, that's me. It's me if you include getting highly agitated at people who are rude at shows.

People who must ask you to get up 54 times within a 2 hour period so they can squeeze their largess past you to get another beer, a tray of french fries or whatever it is that they "need" are super unnecessary. For the love of God, did you not KNOW we would be here for 120 minutes to enjoy a show? What the hell would you do if you had to survive in the woods or a road trip or a meeting without provisions for a few hours? I'll tell you what would happen. You would die.

So when this same group tries to return to their seats and cannot find them because they are so drunk they can barely recognize what country they're in, you know what happens. They stand in the aisle staring at you. And you can read their dumbfounded expressions for the duration: "Do I know this chick? Did I squeeze my largess past her on my way for another Michelob?" You guessed it. That ticks me off too. Because I can't see the stage, you jerks!

And ahh, here's another one. The guy behind me that is discussing an important matter on his cell phone during one of the most riveting songs of the evening. Yes, it's true. He was the same putz who decided to open up his big mouth between the songs, because evidently, nothing being said outside of the tunes he recognized was anything of consequence to him. Oh sweet Jesus, was I ready to display my dark and evil side.

People don't do this kind of crap during a Symphony performance, right? They have enough respect for the artists and the crowd to stay put. Don't get me wrong--I love the crazed cheering, singing along and excitement at a stadium show. But all that other stuff, people? There's a roller derby game with your name on it somewhere.

U2: Magnificent

It's hard to render Gropius speechless, but U2 always does the trick. These days, a girl can diverge in a million distinctly different directions, with her life changing in a number of unexpected ways. U2 has been a constant for me for ages. The timelessness and depths of their lyrics, the musical package, the brilliant multi-media of their shows and the combination of play, activism and insightful beauty is overwhelming.

Last night, a most unexpectedly gorgeous addition to the concert: a live connection with Guy Laliberte from the International Space Station, who eloquently spoke about the beauty of Earth from space and the importance of conservation. Ahhhhh, more music to my ears.

So thank you, boys. I just adore you. I can't say that about many people I don't know. Somehow, you've convinced me that I do know you, and I love who you are. Keep it coming.

Here's a bit of video from last night. And here's the scoop on what they played.

Welcome, Sweet Girl

I would officially be in the permanent dog house if I displayed Eileen Elizabeth's photo online without family permission, but I can tell you that yesterday in the five o'clock hour (Eastern time), a new little girl was welcomed into the world.

Named for my grandmother and sister-in-law's grandmother, she made her debut in a little border town in Texas where my brother is stationed. The two parents could not be more out-of-this-world happy and proud, and right from the beginning, she was introduced to a life where many people love her, near and far. (...And guess what PLRH, it would seem that she's a little red head.)

More often than not it seems, I hear of new babies born into less than ideal circumstances. Aside from the obvious joy I feel about this new addition to my family, I feel the great happiness of knowing that this little one has a fortunate start. I can't wait to get to know her.

Project Concern International in Guatemala provides community-based health care for mothers who aren't so lucky to be equipped with the medicine, delivery sevices and care to ensure healthy births. Through Alternative Gifts International, I'm making a gift in Eileen's honor to help purchase newborn kits and care for Mayan women and their infants. Keep this in mind when you're looking for a baby gift or a holiday gift to the world! They'll send out a nice card for you to let the honoree know what was given in their honor.

Welcome, sweet Eileen!

Confessions of a New Baseball Mom...No, Don't Call Me That

Saturday was D-man's first game at GT Bray, and I wasn't exactly prepared for a few things. But I'm told that eventually, it will become part of the routine and I'll become just as complacent as the rest of them about...

• Being a baseball mom? Don't ever call me that or you're going down.
  I have a son who plays baseball and I support him and the team. You may think it's bizarre that I resent being referred to as "a [fill in the blank with any sport] mom." I don't quite understand it myself. Does this have anything to do with Sarah Palin? I don't know. But I don't like it.
  
• The fact that sometimes, every kid on the opposing team has a good 30 pounds and 2 feet in excess of our boys.
  With each pitcher/batter face off, I felt like we were witnessing Andre the Giant take on Paul from the Wonder Years. I was scared.
  
• Holy crap. There's a kid on our team with facial hair.
  (Yeah, he's the only one who could disguise himself as a player on the other team and get away with it). It must not be too much longer until "things" start happening here at our house.
  
• There is a click of loud and foul-mouthed women who congregate next to the bleachers yelling at one another in thick Brooklyn accents.
  Don't look at them too long, or you'll start to wonder if they'll be waiting for you in the parking lot.
  
• And finally, toting along some reading material might not be a bad idea (although if it's not a National Inquirer, the loud and foul-mouthed women will have one more reason to hate you).
  We endured a 45 minute inning, which is apparently not unusual.

If I could only hear some of the conversations emanating from said spectator-parents, I would have an abundance of free and potentially juicy Gropius material. Tuesday evening, I go on alert with a special listening device. Until then, have a good week, peeps.

Bosom Buddy Buttons Barge In

Yesterday I must have flashed 4 people, all because my brazen fabric covered buttons--there for my protection--apparently went on strike.

Exposing yourself isn't part of the culture in my office. But I commend those who gently pointed out that I should postpone the show.

After hours, stepping into a street in the Village of the Arts bustling with men eager for their wifes to emerge from the stores, it took one look to know that um, I had been betrayed once more by my own favorite blouse, now blacklisted forever and destined to be sorted and redistributed by Goodwill Industries. I must say, Ann Taylor, I never took you for this kind of girl.