Movie Review: When in Rome

D-Man was invited to a birthday camping trip this weekend, providing Husband and I with a rare day to ourselves. After arriving a little too late to our preferred flick—one in which we would be forced to stare up nostrils all night from the front two rows—we decided to take our chances on When In Rome.

We knew we were doomed when we entered a theatre full of teeny boppers. Husband quickly received group laughter from the last row when he fell into his seat. And before the film began, we would periodically hear the outbursts of obnoxious snickering from various corners of the room. Aahhh, to be that age again when literally everything others do is hilarious. Although I confess to similar theater antics as a teen, even at that time in my life I thought to myself, “Damn, we are annoying. I would hate us if I weren’t us.”

One of the best parts of the movie came right at the beginning. Kristin Bell’s character turns to her ex (who’s showed up unexpectedly at an event she coordinated) and has a huge piece of salad wedged between a tooth. I found particular enjoyment from this in relationship to my own “spinach spot.” Husband always asks me if “I’m storing something for later.” If it isn’t for that freaking one tooth space….agh! I can always count on it.

You may want to see this film if...

a.) You have a teenage daughter you’d like to spend some QT with.

b.) You’re in the mood for something to take you on a 2 hour trip away from life as you know it but aren’t looking for anything deep—it is cute and decent (hey, nothing wrong with that)

c.) You’d like to laugh at something you’ve already seen on television previews 53 times.

It’s really not a bad movie, but I wouldn’t expect any Sundance awards coming this way.

Here’s a clip that is fairly representative of what you’ll see in When In Rome…and it also happens to show the sister, who my goodness, looks like a 14 year old. Husband and I were totally grossed out at a nearly naked apron scene where she really looked like a child-bride. Yeew.



Are we right? What's UP with that choice?

Stress and Shopping: A Happily Married Couple

I hate admitting my love for shopping because I also hate stereotypes--like "all women love to shop," "Americans are materialistic," blah blah. And sometimes I hate shopping. During these times, the mall is the last place on earth I would like to see or be seen. I go through phases. But for the love of Pete, when I'm in the midst of stress, I loooove to shop. 

How can I deny Talbots when they have a great skirt that was formerly $119 and is now $30?  Maybe it's just the fabric I like.

Can I say no to Calvin Klein when a pair of tweed pants is half off?  And honestly, if that polka dot dress wasn't in my tiny little closet, I don't know what would be.  I also had a half-baked excuse...nothing I owned would have been suitable for that luncheon. (Just a small fib I told myself.)

I also scored a nice pair of black boots (plether of course) and a few other miscellaneous items.

Being the analytical-of-oneself dork that I am, I've often mused about why I enjoy shopping at times. It probably symoblizes "new" when I'm in the midst of tiresome issues that must be worked through to finish a project. Or a feeling of abundance when I'm feeling wiped out from the rest of the world.  Interesting. At least I'm aware of it.

It's Saturday here...finally. It's going to be rainy, providing a good excuse to stay inside and slow the hell down. I have a good book, a sweet pooch, nice family and a bed that's begging me to hang out there today. Now if Husband can get that rain barrel hooked up before the sky drops out, we'll all be in good shape.

Do Birds Leave Their Keys in Co-Workers' Cars Too?

It's been another 10-weeks-in-one sort of week so far. I feel like I don't even know what my name is. Yesterday I took an hour away from the office to do some shopping since I spent half of Saturday at work. I left my keys in my co-worker's car and remembered this tiny little fact after she had departed for the day. Smart,Gropius. Real smart.

Tomorrow I have a 2 hour presentation that I've been looking forward to, but I haven't had the projected time to prepare, so I have my marching orders tonight. I shall dine on a PowerPoint dessert with a cherry on top.

So I totally stole this video from a post on Rambling the Natural World with Ken Brennen, but I had to share it. If you're a nature buff, or even if you hate birds, you'll get enjoyment from it.



Ken has changed my understanding of scientists. Some of them have a damn good sense of humor. And it's usually that dry, understated kind that makes me laugh but always keeps me wondering,"Wait...was that a joke?"

Check his blog out if you like the outdoors and a big bite of contemplative rambling with a purpose.

Don't Be an Art Chicken

Those are the famous words of my 11 grade art teacher.  Mr. B, as he was fondly called, was a huge fan of one-liners that would forever brand you in the art or social world.

He was a broadly built man of medium height with a long gray/black beard. He wore long-sleeved button down shirts that he would roll up for good paint-shirt contact prevention. On the upper shelves above the cabinets full of art supplies was Mr. B's junk collection.

We joked about a Sanford & Son connection, but knew that we would pay the price when he pulled a huge conglomeration of it into the center of the room for us to paint. "Oh great, another still life." Each still life seemed to grow in size--another added vase, bicycle wheel, double-duty boots, industrial strength something, etc.

When Mr. B belted out with "don't be an art chicken" right after he explained a new project, he meant "be bold, experiment and don't be safe with your art."  Accordingly, one day I went where no (wo)man had gone before by mistaking a can of gold spray paint for a can of clear fixative--the kind that would immortalize my most recent creation, a chalk rendering of a nuclear winter man. (Don't ask me what the hell that means, but I was a pretty damn good art student.) 

When the resulting guilded catastrophe was revealed, Mr. B. laughed a big booming throaty laugh, snatched the piece and held it up to the entire class. "This is what happens when you don't use your ability to read," he said.

After he got a week's worth of entertainment from that moment, he sat down with me to lay out a strategy for the repairs. All I can say is that I was NEVER accused of being an art chicken.

Mr. B is now retired, living happily ever after with my 10th grade art teacher (with whom I still keep in touch). They own a daylily farm in NC.

Failure to Connect: The Rain, The Rain barrel and a River

Imagine my surprise receiving a call that I won a drawing for a new rain barrel. Me. I never win anything. (And I'm not complaining, it's just one of those fact of life things for Gropius.) I immediately thought, all in about 10 seconds...

• Yes! I never win anything.
• Yes! We've been wanting a rain barrel. Not so we can take rain water showers or anything like that. But it would be awesome for watering our plants and garden.
• Wait. How will I fit this rain barrel in my car?
• Oh yeah...coming back to me...It's one of those rain barrels that kids painted with their names and handprints. Hmmm...

It kind of reminded me of when our old neighbors won a drawing for a baby chicken (turning out to be a rooster) at some bird show.  It made for a tough situation, living within the city limits and all.

So Husb went to retrieve the barrel. He bought a gutter for the back roof line, installed the gutter and got to play with power tools. All we needed was rain!  And holy cow was it raining this morning.  Aaaah yeah! 

I hadn't actually seen the finished product, so to speak. You know, the entire thing, connected and ready to go. So imagine my surprise when I walked onto the porch at 6:12 a.m. to see the rain barrel--dry as my January skin--hanging out in the shelter of the porch and the connected gutter doing just what it was supposed to do:

Spewing thousands of gallons of water...

Into newly forming rivers, riverlets, streams, and mini-streams of wasted rain barrel aqua. Our kayaks were feeling very much at home in the backyard. And then a few minutes passed, and as with all deluges in Florida, the rivers passed into quiet subterranian streams.

Husband had a very busy weekend, and for the love of Pete, I could have actually helped getting it all connected. There's always our next rainstorm...

I Miss Ingrid

Last April, one of my dearest friends and no doubt the one of the rarest of souls to grace this planet died of cancer.

Not a day goes by when she doesn’t enter my subconscious—she’s with me everywhere.

My grief over this loss comes in waves. Some days I just remember a part of her that would have said in her Swedish accent—“Don’t give it another goddamn thought, Susie” or “Sweetheart, don’t let it bother you” or something provocative just to elicit a response in that inner Gropius prude.

Other times, like the last few days, I am overwhelmed with a feeling of loss. I miss her incredibly. The WORLD misses her. I think of circumstances with our coinciding circles and how different they would be with the gift of her energy, laughter, ability to make everyone feel both acknowledged and humble at the same time.

Honestly, there was no one who didn’t love Ingrid. She was that once-in-a-lifetime kind of person. She could live in the present like no one's business. She could turn an ass into an angel in a matter of minutes. She knew who she was but she was always up for learning more.

We are blessed now to have a continued relationship with Stig, her husband. He’s doing okay, missing her deeply, but carrying on with life just as she would want him to. An 87 year old, her senior by almost 20 years, he comes in to volunteer for me to keep himself busy. He works on Excel spreadsheets entering data. How amazing! I love the smile on his face when we stop by his house with a cheesecake.

With all of her orchids on the patio, the kitchen she just remodeled with the butcher block counter tops, her Siamese cat Coco—it’s so strange to see Ingrid’s home without her in it.

Today I drove past the entrance to her neighborhood. A red shouldered hawk was sitting up on the light post. Is it the same one we’d always admire when I dropped her off those hundreds of times after work?

The pond on the corner of Whitfield and Lockwood Ridge is as lovely as ever. We both loved to soak in its colors, expanding grasses—scanning for alligators and wading birds. That corner is forever marked “Ingrid.” Many things are marked this way.

Totally Random Thoughts from the Week

A phenomenal speaker I heard this week mentioned that 80-90% of all of the gazillion thoughts to go through our heads each day are negative. Yikes. Is this true for me? I think not!
Here’s a totally random sampling of this week’s fleeting Gropius thoughts:

• Did the holidays ever happen? Oh yes they did. It was like 17 years ago.
• I lied. Oh my gosh I lied. I knew I wouldn’t do the dishes tonight.
• She does not deserve this. Please, Universe, toss her a bone at least. Her parents need help now, and she’s done everything she can.
• For the first time ever, I’m sick of pizza. This will change in 3 days.
• I need a good movie.
• There are exactly 187 days until our summer vacation. 7 months sounds better. Or does it?
• That was the best damn veggie spring roll I’ve had. I loved my Thursday night Thai dinner with Husband. Glad we can eat out. Some people don’t know where their next meal is coming from. Does this make me wasteful?
• That was rude, crude and socially unacceptable. (It was my 11th grade art teacher’s favorite saying when people were unnecessarily obnoxious and nasty. Along with “Don’t be an art chicken,” that was his mantra.)
• I love this lady’s speech! It’s so positive, so inspiring, so making me want to really jump up and down. [10 minutes later: Will this day ever come to an end?]
• Note to self: when I say “yes” to too many pro bono project invites for the future, when the future arrives I deserve the mess in my head.
• I am so SICK of people’s pettiness. Go back to third grade and tell the teacher.
• One day the lame porkie poopers who sit at home and post their nasty comments to online news articles about positive work in the community will self-destruct. Who ARE these people anyway?
• I need to exercise. What the hell would it take to get me in my tennies and out the door for a good 2 miles? Never mind. I am so freaking tired. I’ve burned up enough energy today worrying and trying to keep 8,986 projects in order.
• I feel better knowing there are a lot of good people in the world who genuinely care about what happens far away from them and what’s happening in their own backyard. I wonder…are there more who care than don’t?

Dear God, is it true? Do I really have too many negative thoughts? I don’t think so. I have lots of hope, I like my job, I’m grateful for what I have and just to be alive, I feel lucky to have good family and friends, I feel pretty good about my diverse set of hobbies and interests, and finally, I have faith in goodness and a higher power.

Note to self: Must invest in some positive thinking tapes. I own my thoughts. I don’t want a lot of the ones above. Focus more on the present, enjoy each day and moment, forget about the dorky complainers, and cut out the guilt. Adding that to my project list...

Gifts for Toddlers

Husband was being a nice little Husband, putting some things that had just come out of the dryer into piles as we were both scrambling to hang up the day and get to bed. I do the laundry, and of course handle that big boy of a dryer which obviously has been working over time on special belongings.

Husband:  Pointing to a new Ann Taylor jacket shown below with "big girl sweater" for comparison, "Does this need to be stretched out or something? It looks a little small."

Gropius: "Nooooooooooooooo!!!!"

Husband: "What?"

Gropius: "What do you mean "what?' I just shrunk the crap out of it!!! ...And therefore, it cost me $30 each time I wore it."

Husband: "I thought it was, like, supposed to look like that...maybe a little bigger after it got stretched out."

Gropius: "That is truly flattering, Husband, but I stopped being able to fit into doll clothes when I was 12 months old."

Husband: "I'm out of here."


Poor Husband. Classic case of killing the messenger.

Gropius: (from one room to the next)  "...Hmmm....maybe our 4 month old niece can wear this. I'll get a package together."

Fleas. I Don't Do Fleas.

We’ve been so flea-lucky for the 11 years we have had the honor of being caretakers of Flanders. As in, we haven’t had many flea run-in’s. It’s usually such a non-issue that we can avoid the nasty industrial strength pesticides and those suspicious edibles that somehow control fleas internally.
On Sunday we were loading Flanders in the car for a walk at Emerson Point Nature Preserve (aaah yeah) and happened to notice SEVERAL fleas crawling to safe harbors on her backside. Time for some industrial strength pooch-approved pesticides.

I hate to do it. I can’t help but think of how terrible they are for her, not to mention us. But I don’t do fleas. And it’s triage time—I’ve never found organic flea control that works.

We used to have a vet who loved to diagram the life cycles of fleas and ticks on a dry erase board in the examining room. Clearly, he deeply enjoyed it. Show me mosquitoes, dung beetles, fire ants, killer bees—I’m fascinated with most insects. Fleas, um no. They are tiny, disgusting monsters.

When I was in college, my roommate and I were foster parents to a horrible cat named Athena who (surprise, surprise) no one wanted to adopt. The poor thing would hide under a bed until the weekend trip to the adoption location. At this point she would scratch the hell out of my forearms when I tried to retrieve her. She came to us from a place that was surely responsible for her unsavory manners, and I felt sorry for her. But she also came to us with fleas. Which abruptly infested the carpet. How I survived that time, I do not know. It was hellish and seemingly impossible to get rid of them.

Thank goodness we are carpet-free in this house. Frontline: I disagree with all that you are, but I thank the organic chemist who designed you for your mere existence. Now do your stuff.

Why I Married A Meat Eater

Very clever, Pines Lake Redhead. Not only did you name all 4 movies with a little help of your commenting predecessors, but you came up with a challenging title for this post. And I have two answers, a serious one and a not so serious one, both of which are true.

Before I continue, the movies were:

1. The Princess Bride. Of course my fave of all time.
2. The Goonies. A classic--love it that D-Man enjoys it just as much as I did.
3. Stand by Me. This story is at once funny, sad, thoughtful...haven't seen it in years. Must rent.
4. Say Anything.  Maybe not a classic for everyone, but who could resist Lloyd Dobbler?

So here we go: Why I Married A Meat Eater.

Serious:

As a vegetarian of 17 years, I’ve heard it all. Two of the most frequent lines are:

• “Why do you eat plants, they’re alive too?” (That is HILARIOUS! If I only had a freaking dime for every time I hear that.)
• “Hmmmm. Do you wear leather?” (Nope. Sorry you didn’t “get” me on that one.)

Contrary to the conclusion that many people seem to draw on their own from the moment they hear “vegetarian,” I don’t make any judgments on people for choosing to eat meat. I don’t lecture people about why it’s a choice for me. And I don’t even discuss it unless someone asks me “why.” Then I have a quick and simple answer to share, knowing if people want more, they’ll ask.

In short, I’ve learned that much more explanation—especially unsolicited—yields the unintended result of making people believe that vegetarians are “moral high horse” elitists.

Now of course I didn’t set out purposely to marry a meat eater; you can’t help you love. And for a world riddled with craziness, I could do a lot worse with character traits.

When I met Husb over 10 years ago, he was working as a chef and prided himself on the art of preparing a beautiful meal. He went to all lengths possible to break the barriers of edible cuisine without delving into what’s most comfortable: those carvings of beef, chicken, sausage, and whatever other muscles and intestines most of the populace eats.

It was pretty impressive. In truth, our marriage had little to do with food of course, but our relationship was comfortable from the very beginning because he honored this facet of me from the very start, while never making unintended promises to one day stop eating meat himself.  To this day, we either eat a meatless dinner, or have two similar dinners—one with meat and one without.

It works out pretty nicely because he knew from the beginning vegetarianism was a strong conviction and he hasn’t tried to slip in the chicken broth on even one occasion.

Not so serious:

Husb and I share the knowledge that a seventh food group exists: the Cheeto Group. This was a commonality we found right from the beginning. No one can pound a daily bag of Cheetos like the two of us, and for this, I can forgive even the meatiest atrocity. Did you know that in 2008, a Jesus-like Cheeto was discovered, since dubbed Cheesus?  Cheesus, if this common ground doesn't bind two people together, what does?

80's Movie Challenge

I thought just for kicks I’d issue an 80’s movie challenge. The first person to correctly identify the movies quoted below will get to name the title of Gropius’ next blog post.

It’s a small reward, but could prove to be very funny indeed. You can make it absolutely crazy, bizarre or contrary to Gropius’ likes, but the only requirement: it can’t be anything slanderous, racially biased or politically charged. Even if you don’t know all 4, comment on what you do know & throw in your favorite 80’s movie quote.

Movie 1.
“No more rhymes now I mean it!"
“Anybody want a peanut?”

Movie 2.
“I like the dark. I love the dark. But I hate nature, I hate nature!”

Movie 3.
“Did lard ass have to pay to enter the pie eating contest?”

Movie 4.
“Diane Cort is a show pony. What you need is a stallion.”

Let’s see what you’ve got.

A Closet for Every Season

Working, just working period, exposes one to many entertaining situations that could easily make any television sitcom. Scenarios that take place in the office—or are shared by people you work with, or are shared by people you network with as a result of working in that office realm, or are created by all of the above—are famously productive waters for emotional reactions.


A well-respected charity-world sage who I’m proud to say is also a Gropius reader said, “I especially love to just go right at the things that upset me, despite the potential chaos, which is why my wife tells me that my wake will be held in a coat closet.” That quote should be featured on a quote-of-the-day calendar...like 365 times.

Sometimes coat closets are a good thing. It’s nice to put bits of hot clothing in the deep recesses of your cool closet and take them out during another season—one in which others have forgotten that you own them or that they have commented on them in a less than forgiving fashion. So that’s what I’m doing.

But I do obsessively refine new "Gropius" episodes of The Office on a daily basis. And I do believe in some corner of my annoyingly active mind that I will one day contact NBC and make a name for the hilarious minutia of collectibles in the daily grind.

By the way, it’s nice to have the space to ruminate on such crap, isn’t it? I am sure by now you have imagined yourself in Haiti and what it might be like after this disaster. Like you, I've seen the news coverage and like you, I would like to do anything that empowers me to help...feeling sorry for the plight of these people isn't helpful!  I don't like feeling powerless. I'm wishing I could get on a relief plane and get there soon to help dig.

One thing I have done: visit this website, where sits a great list of organizations working the front lines there. I’m sure any one of them would be an excellent place for any contribution you can spare.

A Partial Scoop

Honestly this week’s measly two days have felt like an eternity. Phew…is tomorrow the hump day for real? Someone commented that you could fit the entire year into the last couple of weeks and I wholeheartedly agree.

The Russian Queen of Gratitude, the Thanksgiving Girl whose blog I enjoy greatly, tagged me in a “10 Things You Didn’t Know About Me” sort of thing. Here’s a short scoop on some random tidbits about Gropius:

1. I wish I had Patsy Cline’s voice. (Pre- mortem)

2. I’ve always been fascinated with snakes and have had Corn Snakes, Eastern King Snakes, Florida Kings Snakes & others for pets…along with a pet tarantula.

3. I love to buy clothes. And jewelry. But not typical jewelry. Diamonds and gold mean little to me.

4. My favorite day was my wedding day: all of my friends and family in one place at the same time, all with the same sentiments of joy, festivity and happiness. That’s a great feeling.

5. Nature is what holds me together: I am forever fascinated and in love with the beauty of leaves, insects, breezes, bark and cloud formations.

6. I think a lot about reincarnation and past lives.

7. I moved to Florida when I was a senior in high school and the departure from life as I knew it at such a sensitive time broke my heart. But here I am. Still. It grows on you.

8. My fingernails have always sucked and I could care less.

9. I still don't understand what's so exotic about red hair and freckles but they've plagued me all my life.

10. Making a difference in the lives of others is really important to me. I am constantly trying to weigh the impact I’ve had—or could have had—or didn’t have on people who are in the sphere of my life.


So here’s the fun part. I’m going to tag a few of you and hope you’ll play. If you don’t, you’re still on my good list. So how about it, Pines Lakes Redhead, Water Witches’ Daughter, Nurse Myra, Ken Brennen, Picture Imperfect, Jessica, Diane, Uncommon Blonde, Maureen and Blue Violet? I'd love to hear a few factual finds about your inner workings, gleaful glitches or otherwise interesting "you" trivia.

Thanks for the shout out, Julia!  Your posts have been an excellent reminder to me that gratitude should rule my daily world.

The River of Grass

We’re just getting back in after a short weekend visit to Husband’s mother’s house. You know it’s officially colder than a well digger’s behind when you wake up to 35 degrees in Miami, Florida. Yes, friends, this area of the country has witnessed iguanas falling out of the trees because their little cold-blooded bodies are frozen stiff.

One of my favorite drives of all time is US 41 through the Everglades. Miami is about 4 hours from our house, and a trip there always yields the reward of the road.

Years ago during a college summer, I was collecting signatures for an amendment to our state’s constitution for a one cent tax to support Everglades restoration. One kid asked me if the Everglades was “that ride at Busch gardens.” Someone else remarked that he went to Everglades National Park and “it was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen.”

If you’re tuned way into to the overpowering majesty of some of the great Western mountains, you may be at first disappointed by the flat, subtle and seemingly monotonous nature of the Everglades terrain. But take a closer look—hell take a few hours to school yourself on the complexities of the water cycles, ecological diversity and fragility of the great balances of elements and wildlife there. You will be utterly amazed at its beauty and its worthiness of preservation.

Thank goodness our state and the federal government are now investing in its restoration. It’s the largest restoration of its kind—fitting for the only such “river of grass” in the world of its kind.

We only got out of the car this time for about 20 minutes at the Shark Valley entrance to Everglades National Park. I repeat. It was c-c-cold this morning. Wading birds were plentiful and also looked to be pretty darn chilly. I found the expressions on this Great Blue Heron (top) and this Black Vulture to be absolutely priceless. “What chu lookin’ at, Willis?”

We saw lots of Wood Storks, Ibises, Little Blue Herons, Great Egrets, Snowy Egrets, you name it. Red-shouldered Hawks looked down from perches to their next cold fur-ball of a meal. Double-breasted cormorants hovered in the masses in bald cypress trees as they took a short break from the cold fishing waters. On the Bobcat Trail boardwalk, a busy Blue-Grey Gnatcatcher worked the leaves with expert skills for insects like an old man with a metal detector on the beach.

I'm hoping to get down to that very special part of Florida in the Spring for a fitting exploration like the ones I enjoyed a couple years ago.

So much to enjoy and appreciate down there. You must get to the Everglades at least once in your life.  I recently finished Liquid Land: A Journey Through the Florida Everglades by Ted Levin. Superb!

Hope you're staying toasty where ever you're living. Flanders is still jiving with her snuggie.

Wrong. So Wrong.

I can't even begin to explain how wrong this is. On so many levels. Really.

I could make an entire career out of hating the fact that people torture their animals with ridiculous sweaters and other articles of clothing in which their dearly loved pets wouldn’t like to be caught dead.

So it’s been a little chilly here in SW Florida, as I’m sure it has in your neck of the woods. Flanders may be a pit mix, but she’s a delicate flower—tends to get the chills easily.

But when I say “delicate flower,” I do not mean “prissy puke star.” She doesn’t go for pink. She doesn’t go for apparel. And she sure doesn’t go for dress up, painted nails or cute hair cuts. (Poindexter’s dog is exempt from this conversation, as her dog couldn’t look more adorable in her new hair.)

And disclaimer: If you put clothes on your dog, I don’t hate you. It’s just…we live in Florida. And big dogs are kind of my thing. I just…we’re different, okay.

So here’s the big freaking surprise for me that completely adds insult to injury: Flanders doesn’t appear at all uncomfortable in her new get-up. In fact, she is quite naturally enjoying her new obnoxious Snuggie skin. Like it’s not even cramping her style.

Ah, Flanders. Question. What is this going to do to your street creds?

Truthfully, when it comes down to it, wtf, Husband? How long have I ASKED for a Snuggie? I didn’t find one under the tree this year. You brought one home for Flanders, and you are both making a fool out of me. A recent Gropious Facebook posting read, “No! I will not put a sweater on my dog!!!!”

Eat doodoo—both of you!!!


BTW, on a more serious note, thank you for your amazing dream interpretations. I am incredibly impressed with your power to discern images from a fellow blogger’s psyche. Most of you were very similar in your illuminating remarks, and I think you’re right on. (And whoever made that Gary Coleman comment, where are you? Who are you? Husband and I are laughing our behinds off. Good one indeed.)

A Girl Can Dream...

Sometimes I go through these periods of intense nightly dreams, ones that make me seriously wonder...

a.) what sorts of crazy crap I'm subconciously soaking up on TV, radio or in conversations and
b.) what underlying psychological donuts I'm dealing with digesting.

Last night I dreamt of returning to a natural place I loved and finding that it had been completely mowed down and destroyed, replaced with sidewalks, stores and empty buildings happily awaiting new commerce. 

This natural place doesn't exist but is one resulting from a mental combination of many beautiful places I visit in the flesh-- a nature trail in my old neighborhood that goes through mangroves and brackish water bridges; a path across freshwater marshes and tall grasses at a nature center where I once worked; and a woodsy trail of subtle beauty I know well.

I was panicked when I saw what had happened in my dream.  I knew it was too late to get back what was once there. And there was no one there to tell.

Years ago, I went through a stage where I thought every little stinking dream needed interpretation to de-code its symbolism or to determine whether it was a premonition of sorts.  I read all kinds of themed books that indicated when you dream about teeth, it's really about money; if you dream about hairbrushes, it's really about sex; you know, asinine generalizations.  I then decided to keep a dream journal, but just like all journals, stopped after a few entries. For Pete's sake, I write enough!! 

What do you suppose this dream means?  I could pay someone a few hundred dollars to try and decipher my inner expressionism for me or decide that one of my favorite real-life places will soon be bulldozed, but instead, I thought I'd ask you for your insightful--or humorous--thoughts about the whole thing.

Are you a dreamer at night?

Pancakes and Lemonade

Eating pancakes for dinner is a good thing, if you ask any self-respecting carbohydraterian. Especially when it's bitterly cold outside. And especially if you're feeling sorry for yourself that work and life-as-you-know-it is back in session after a comfy set of holidays. The cakes are comin' soon. Husb is in the kitchen.

Until that moment comes, I'm thinking about a reminder from a Gropius commenter that planning an extra special outing in February or March can help break up the post-New Year blues. That's a good idea. Here are some close to home options I'm weighing:

• Amelia Island.
• Bok Tower Gardens over in Lake Wales.
• The Everglades adventure. It's about that time again.

Meanwhile, can I tell you with the utmost sincerity how much I enjoy reading about each of your lives?  I always look forward to what's happened since your last post.

And many thanks to Suzicate, one of my daily faves for sure who I discovered on Pines Lake Redhead (another fave-of-long-blogging-time) for a most unexpected and deeply appreciated recognition: the Lemonade Stand Award. 

Now I hope I'm not breaking the rules here, passing it on to another blogger who's got attitude and gratitude. You're clearly all Goddesses of the written word.  But for a slightly belated birthday gift, I'd love to share it with Mitzi Burger over at Bloggin Boots.

This spirited Aussie lady, recently turned dirty-30, can write like there's no tomorrow. I enjoy her musings on life, her loquacious flirtaciousness, and her gracious gifts of perspective and metaphor. She's learned on many subjects but not afraid to be hopelessly silly. And she'll probably laugh at the Lemonade Stand Award. Love her blog. Check it out.

As for Suzicate, when you can combine humor with love, great characterization of life's best quirks and people, and the occasional reflective moment with spicey writing, you'll get the Water Witch's Daughter. She's a great storyteller. Thanks for the lemonade. I enjoyed it with my pancakes.

Please don't let this reflect my mothering skills.

Can I just say that I'm a fabulous mother? It was freeeeezing here this morning, but I knew D-Man could take it for a little while at the bus stop.

With his new phone that's attached to his thumbs, he texted me at 7:54 a.m. to say, "I love you. Have a good day."

How sweet.

My response from work: "Thank you; you too. You better not have that phone at school."

"Don't worry, I don't." (Um, will someone explain the mechanics of this?)

Shortly after that I received a call from Husb. "Can you look online at the Manatee County school calendar? The neighbor says there's no school?"

Apparently, that neighbor would be absolutely right. So glad we sent him off to the bus stop.

I'll chalk it up to post-holiday depression. The only thing I can think right now is "For the love of Pete, it will be a whole year before people are chilled out, jovial and giving..all at the same time. Knowing this is a suckfest."

Going back. Way back. A visit to Cracker Country.

I realize that "way back" may mean something a little different in the state of Florida. So pardon my "way" back and know that I'm talking about the late 1800's.

On Saturday, my little family trecked up to Cracker Country.  (The term "cracker" in Florida comes from the old cow hunting days, where the brave folks who lived here actually hunted the free roaming cows when it was time to bring them to market or in for branding. Now of course I can't endorse this as a vegetarian, but hey, people did what they needed to. The cow hunters would crack their whips and came to be called "crackers.")

We loved the collection of authentic buildings, brought to Cracker Country (situated on a little section of the Florida State Fairgrounds in Tampa) from various areas of the state's interior. They included a general store, a church, a one room school house, a train depot and the old Carlton house. Each building was crafted from heart pine, the interior of the yellow pine that is both best and rot resistant. (Yepper, they just don't make 'em like they used to.)  So here are a few lessons we learned:

A. Washing clothes was a bitch. We will never complain about it again. Boiling, washboarding, drying, hanging, and ironing with a 423 pound iron that you constantly had to bring back to the fire to warm up again.

B. Notebook paper may be quickly becoming a thing of the past with computers as far as the eye can see, but imagine writing on tiny chalkboards all day. My skin feels ashy just thinking about it.

C. I will never complain about the selection at our closest grocier again. Slim picken's back then. And you were damn thankful for what you had and thankful if the store would give you credit. Or exchange a bit of old timey bug repellant for your eggs.

D. Some things will never change. And wouldn't be any different had they happened 120 years ago.

All you need is love.

Love is all you need.

Happy New Year! Here's to Courage.

I was happy to discover that we have a brand new themed section in NYC's New Year's Eve Ball: "Let There Be Courage."  (And holy crap, Waterford has also released a New Year's Eve iPhone app called "Clink-Clink"...that didn't make my top 10 list.)

I've fought feelings of guilt this year because I still have a home, both my Husb and I have jobs, we have our health...so many things to be grateful for when there is so much suffering right here in the States, in Florida, here in Sarasota/ Bradenton, where we do a good job of covering up our problems with relative weath. 

No doubt courage is needed at this time.

We have serious issues in the world that are approaching a level that seems insurmountable. I don't believe they are insurmountable. But still, we all know that perception is everything. It's really a time for us to step forward and be courageous--accepting new realities and changing those that are unacceptable; making personal choices that reflect our deepest convictions; and keeping a positive, hopeful stance toward people and our planet, even when it seems most difficult.  (It's so much easier to be sarcastic, isn't it?)

I can think of several inner personal battles that require more courage on my part, and I love the person (or the bickering committee) who waded through millions of theme ideas to come up with this "Let There Be Courage" theme for the year 2010.

If you have two minutes, enjoy this short video of inspirational movie speeches. Although it depicts a little too many war scenes for my liking, "courage" is the prevailing theme. (Oh and don't miss the scenes of Sloth from The Goonies and one of my all time favorites, Dead Poet's Society.)  It reminds me that times requiring great faith in dark hours also present the most opportunity for lasting change, whether it's personal, community-wide, or ocean-crossing.

So how about a glass of champagne today to "Courage": it's what's for dinner. We could all use it this year.