Name Your Hood Ornament

I get to work with some very creative and delightful people. One of them is my partner in silly plots which are, for the most part, never carried out. But a girl can dream, yes?

Though not a scheme, I thought I would pass along an e-mail I received from her last week:

"On my way to work I was traveling with a guy next to me in an old Cutliss, Mac Intosh apple red. The dude was trying to get his eyes open and had probably put his clothes on while he was heading out the door. Maybe he brushed his teeth, maybe not.

The fantastic thing about the view was that your eye was drawn immediately to his hood ornament, the sawed off top of a baseball player’s trophy. It made me think, what would I display so proudly if I had the nerve?

The sight of a sawed off cheerleader trophy from days of yore fastened with caulk on the hood of my minivan just didn’t seem enough. I wish I had won a bowling trophy the night we went in our best threads!

What would you fasten to your eco friendly Honda Civic?

A lovely porcelain Bono bust, of course. What else? WHO else?

Let's just pretend you were that hood ornament kind of girl or guy. What would it be?

"Smells Like the Elderly"

What kind of a moron orders lipstick online from Avon? Me. That's right. The nice "mocha" color which I thought would look like...um mocha...looks like hot pink. It's beautiful, I tell you. Beautiful if you're a freaking mannequin at Old Navy.

So the other thing that really gets me is the Skin So Soft bodywash. How can you go wrong with Skin So Soft, right?  The two bottles I ordered are FIVE ounces each...perhaps enough to get a tiny child through the week--if she skips a bath every other night. The product was marketed as full sized. (And although the miniscule description actually says "5 ounces," you must have a trusty microscope to read the fine print.)

Just as a little insurance policy in case they don't publish my web review of the product, I thought I'd share it with you on Gropius:

An Ant's Head is Bigger Than This Bottle
Date: June 28, 2010

Are you joking? I could go through this entire bottle in a week. Should be marked "sample size." Pretty lousy.

Far better is this Skin So Soft review, straight from the Avon website:

Smells Like the Elderly

Date: January 21, 2010

"Not to disrespect the elderly, but the scent reminds me of pretty much every elderly woman I've ever come into contact with. The gel is great. It moisturizes very well and doesn't leave a residue on my sensitive skin. It didn't break me out, either, which I appreciate. The scent, however, is a strange mix of musk, powder and flowers. Very hard to describe. All I know is it reminded me of my grandmother and I couldn't wait to try this product in a different scent."

If only I could get this person as a regular guest poster on Gropius. What a comedian.

Alive

Yesterday morning I went to Emerson Point Preserve, one of my favorite places in Manatee County. Laced with enchanted mangrove trails along the Terra Ceia Bay, a view of the grand Skyway Bridge in the distance and an upland trail through a transitioning habitat, it's diverse and full of subjects for any inspired photographer. I didn't bring my camera yesterday. I'm glad I didn't. I was able to focus on all the senses, and found some extraordinary things.

The night before we were fortunate to get drenched with a heavy storm. When the rain hits and soaks in, the world rejoices. Emerson was alive with sounds, smells and colors. Everything looked so bright. 

Seven Roseate Spoonbills stood on the side of a shrinking pond that still didn't get nearly enough water to restore the normal levels. Tracks from a wandering armadillo were clear enough to observe from dig to dig, where it had scraped a string of three inch holes searching for a tasty dinner, each laced with a thin line from its receding tail.

Recently the upland trail had been burned. Prescribed fire is a popular habitat management tool here in Florida, where invasive plants are destroyed and pine flatwoods are stopped from the process of succession to hardwood hammocks. Because of the rain, the smell of the burned earth was ripe again, and filled my nose with the scent of a raging campfire the morning after. Beautiful.

The wild limes, a native plant which doesn't actually bear limes, were blooming with clusters of tiny flowers. As I approached each wild lime, a sound like a muffled airstrip grew louder. Hundreds and hundreds of bees were pollinating them, and no matter how close I got, it wasn't close enough to disturb them from their deliberate work of working the small blossoms. Incredible.

I love how the world becomes even more alive after the rain. Although I'm not sure if the plants and creatures are sure of what they're missing, when it comes, they buzz with gratitude and celebration.

Sweet Putayta Bird

I felt terrible. Absolutely terrible. Yet I did laugh. And regrettably, I just don't have a photo of the painting that led to these two very different reactions.

My grandfather had quite an interesting art collection. He loved color--bright color. And he had quite a few large colorful paintings.  On a visit to Mother's house not too long ago, I discovered a particularly unattractive painting of his in her living room. She was studying it, trying to figure out where to hang it. She was very fond of it.

But you see, the subject of the painting was two parrots. It was one of those paintings with a blank background. The birds had parts of them well-defined and the rest still looked more like sketches. My issue was that the body of the largest most obvious bird looked like a giant sweet potato. Once I saw it, that's all I could see.

So I mentioned it to Mom. And began to laugh. Dad agreed that it looked like a freaking sweet potato. And before long, Mother was more than agitated. "Thanks," she said. "You ruined it for me." (This is in a deep Southern accent.)

That was back in April.

The sweet potato bird came up in conversation again this week. "Where'dya put that painting?" I asked her.

"On the street. I put it on the street. You ruined it for me. I couldn't get over the putayta. Thanks a lot."

Okay, okay. I'm a horrible jackass. But it made the whole thing even funnier. But I feel bad. It's still funny. That painting was probably worth millions. But it ended up on the curb. Wonder where it's hanging now...and how long it will take them to see the sweet potato.

Three More Chunks of Inspiration

So the presentation of the 10 slides that inspire me on Friday night at the Art Center was an interesting test of timing. The shows were pre-timed so that we had exactly 30 seconds to talk about each one--no more, no less. Loved the challenge!

Here are several more inspirations I shared. If you're good enough to leave a comment, tell me three things that inspire you--could be people, actions, places, ideas--anything!

Remember Bob Ross, the wet-on-wet oil painter from PBS? What an inspiration he was for me as a young artist. To this day, I'm not sure how much of my love for him was the painting and how much was the calm, soothing voice of caring in his narration of the process.

When I had the opportunity to meet him after a painting demonstration in Charlotte, he remarked in that same genuine kindness how nice it was for him to meet young painters. Bob stayed until he had spoken personally with each and every one of the people who stayed to meet him. Bob died of cancer in his mid 50's. I never knew he was sick until I heard he passed away.

This photograph courtesy of Getty Images was taken of slums in India. It's inspiring for me because it reminds me that I'm a minority in this world--I don't live in poverty. It's easy to take green space, food, resources for granted when you've been surrounded by them during every part of your life.  Keeping this image in mind reminds me to be grateful for this rare abundance. I think about this a lot and hope I give back enough to earn the privileged place I hold. I am so thankful for what I have...and for what I do not have to worry about on a daily basis.

Photography inspires me. I took this image at Hillsborough River State Park, surrounded by infinite details of color, light and texture in a backdrop of green. Photography makes me slow down and take note of the little things, the beauty we often walk past. I used to be the program director of a nature center and it drove me crazy to hear people coming back from their walks, talking about how "we didn't seen anything." They were hoping for an otter or a bobcat and didn't notice the abundance of beauty all around them. So sad. I love that taking pictures keeps me focused on the extraordinary in the ordinary. It's there for all of us.

You're the Inspiration

I remember loving the (then) new Chicago song "You're the Inspiration." Awww, it was just so sweet, wasn't it?

A couple of weeks ago a local group asked me to be one of 10 speakers to do a 5 minute slide show featuring 10 things that inspire me, speaking for exactly 30 seconds about each. Of all the public speaking I've been doing, this one was the hardest to put together, precisely because it's about me, not about a subject. It's been hard for me to get into. I'd love to say that I picked the top inspirations. Most of them are. But then I started picking through them, replacing a few of the slides because I didn't think I could explain them in a way that would be interesting enough.

So what else would I do? Blog about them of course.

Our planet from space is one of the most profound and inspirational images I have ever--and will ever--see. First photographed about 40 years ago, it was the first time we could see in a clear, visual sense the magnitude of our beautiful earth. Carl Sagan's thoughts about it mirror mine exactly:  everyone who you've ever met, who you will ever meet, who has ever lived...lived on this sphere. 

I think of that, of how simple it is that all of humanity, along with all of the wildlife, diverse plant life, water and clouds are contained in this rock. How can we fight?  The "reasons" for war, destruction, selfishness and greed seem so meaningless, so hard to understand, when you look at our world from this inspiring perspective.

Oh. My. Gosh. You are soooooooo smart.

This week I had the misfortune of spending time with a man whose ego is so large he probably has to check it as extra luggage when flying the friendly skies. Wallowing in his own sticky brilliance, he is his own most delicious dream.

I've learned that the best way to navigate through the long stuffy halls of condescending dialogue is to humor myself...by sitting back, listening to the twisted world of superiority and nodding my head as if to recitate, "Man, you are a freaking genius! If I EVER get the chance to meet someone by the likes of you again...wait there is NO ONE who possesses the intellect, the power, the supreme ability to over-utilize jargon, pointless theory..."

You get it.

If I can find it funny, I can get through it. Just let them think they're transmitting the almighty word and then move on to quiet laughter in a corner of my mind reserved for just this very thing. In a way, I thoroughly enjoy that the joke is on them.

This person to which I'm referring is so profoundly insulting and demeaning. It's not my opinion alone. It's shared by most who interact with him.

In the end, perhaps it's not my misfortune. It reminds me of the type of person I never want to be. Ever. I hope my friends and family will let me know if I start to cross a doorway into this type of narcissistic abyss.

Until we meet again, I'll say a prayer for him that an awakening occurs. For if you peel through the obnoxious layers, you may find a real person--one who is smart and deserving of praise but one who does not insist we bow before it while acknowledging what hopeless dummies we are in comparison.

The Sounds & Sights of Hope

This has always been one of my favorite songs; I get a smile from ear to ear when it pops on the radio. It instills a reminder that even if things are tough, I can choose to find hope, happiness and simplicity just around the corner.



These sunflowers from Husband's garden make me feel the same way.

What sounds and sights bring you hope?

When Nothing Is Funny...You Can Always Go for a Diversion

This adequately covers the some of the stupidity of BP.


Unfortunately, it still doesn't solve the problem.

Sanibel Treasures

My only hesitation in another beach posting is that readers who aren't from Florida get the shore stereotype reinforced. So I'll preface the sandy photos with a comment that there are many treasured ecosystems in our state--from pine flatwoods to cypress hammocks, saltwater marshes to turkey oak sandhills. It's a beautiful state.

So that said, let's give it a whirl. Here are some photos of the beautiful, untained-by-oil beaches of Sanibel Island. Get there if you can. It hasn't been spoiled...yet. I'm praying for it.

A frothy surf glides over thousands of years of broken shells and sand leaving a few delicate bubbles--

not to be confused with those hideous Bubble Room bubbles.

A Florida fighting conch's egg case sits on the sand with glimmers of salty film. Damn, laying that many eggs must suck.

White ibises, one adult and one immature, harvest tiny mollusks from the sand. These guys have it right. Never understand the ones you see in urban yards and retention ponds behind big box retailers. What are they THINKING?

Basking in Weirdness with a Giant Pinch of Hot Creepy

Florida is full of beauty, surprises, transplants from faraway places, agriculture...and weird, weird roadside attractions and unexpected dives.

You can't call the Bubble Room a dive, but weird it is. And so chocked full of memorabelia this restaurant with the wobbly roof is, one wonders if the occassion to dust and clean ever comes around more than once in a very long time. Situated on a charming spot on Captiva Island, the Bubble Room is quite possibly the strangest place you'll ever grab a bite to eat. ...If you don't count the Linger Lodge here in Bradenton, which is bathed in a very odd assortment of badly taxidermied mammals and rattlesnakes spelling out words on the walls. I diverege from the subject at hand...

To me, there isn't much that can be creepier than monkeys, monkeys with instruments and oversized rabbits on the front porches of doll houses.

...except maybe clowns--clowns that look mean, like something out of that movie that ran on HBO for two centuries in the late '80's, Killer Clowns from Outerspace. Remember that jewel? Brother used to love it.

Then again, I can't say enough about statues of ravenous animals like a llama that belongs on Poltergeist--looking at you with a creepy stare as if it will soon come alive and attack with its bizarre pink and black lips...

...and a hippo head the wild Nile River has never seen the likes of--jaws thrown open 180 degrees.

Where the HELL did these things come from. And did Stephen King have a hand in their creation?

I can't forget the cage from a circus side show, inhabited here by a local writing Goddess and Gropius reader. 

Despite my apparent Bubble Room bashing, it's such a cool place to visit. The pop history you find within these walls nearly blinds you from too many detailed movie posters, action figures, faded postcards and worn stuffed animals, vintage stuff that could or could not be worth millions in Antique Roadshow.  You can't possibly imagine all of the oldie moldy collector's items, including a giant filthy Micky Mouse from the Macy's Day parade, looming over the tables; dolls with frozen cries on their faces; metal ferris wheels; Alice in Wonderland's real life tea party; a room filled with aquariums and nautical treasures; etc. etc. All of the tables have glass tops under which a myriad of Christmas treasures and random bits of creepiness are mixed together.

Now you simply cannot be in this part of the world without having a meal at the Bubble Room, or at least stopping for one of the 70 pound slices of cake.

A coconut cake slice one of the six friends took home stayed wrapped in the hotel room overnight, followed us through hot car rides around the island the next day and was finally eaten with a shared fork in the car just before we pulled off the highway home.  Ah, friends. Nice to have a bizarre place to share an adventure. Tomorrow I'll post photos of the gorgeous natural treasures of Sanibel/Captiva. They won't be nearly as creepy.

Did I Ever Do Anything So Stupid?

Probably. And thankfully, I erased it from my immediately accessible memory.

Teenagers: they are treasures but do the dumbest crap just to impress their peers. I remember feeling my own obnoxiousness when I was that age and hated it--especially in the younger teen years. I didn't enjoy middle school or much about my part in the whole spectacle of it.

I laughed hysterically when a sweet co-worker emerged from her computer this Tuesday morning to tell me about the misgiving of supervising her young teen and 3 of her closest friends for 20 hours over the Memorial Day weekend.

One of the girls--thankfully not hers--has a reputation for "acting like a dork," a behavior that is evidently magnified when she's around more than a couple of people.

This time, co-worker walked out the back door to find her tied around a thick tree trunk with the other 3 girls pouring soda and emptying Pixi Sticks on her to "see if she would attract ants."

Nice one.

Isn't it easy to laugh at someone else's kids? 

What stupid things did you do for attention at that age?  Do tell, as they say in the South.

The Crime of Inaction

Driving out to Anna Maria Island on Memorial Day, I saw every pump occupied at the BP station. I hated them for being blind. At the same time I wondered if the station was the pride of a small business owner who doesn’t have any more to do with the oil crisis than I do for purchasing gas. And even with a concerted conscience focused on punishing BP, I had stopped at one of their stations to fill my car up last week and realized it half after I had been standing at the pump for over 4 minutes.
The beach was beautiful. During a fast paced walk I enjoyed seeing the families sitting in the sand, a toddler sloppily carrying a full bucket of water to the tiny castle he was building, the brilliant layers of blue-green meeting the cloudless sky…

The knowledge of the big “it” out there—the spill that keeps coming out beyond what any of us can comprehend every minute, hour and day--was a weight for everyone on the shore.  Instead of carrying that heaviness with me, I said a prayer with every step in the surf. I had to feel that somehow my calling of all the Goodness that is seen and unseen would be heard.

Besides that imminent concern and small answer, this time of year I’m especially alert to the beach nesting birds. They depend on a clean beach, undisturbed dunes and the grace of God to hatch and raise their young. Every year, the number of successful least terns, black skimmer and snowy plovers diminishes. More harm that one can possibly imagine is done by the trash on the beach attracting predators, the quick footed tourists and locals who can’t be bothered to look where they step, and unknowing children who chase the energy strained adults mustering everything to feed their chicks.

I loved watching a skimmer dip in the shallow waves, following them in a line down the beach with a grace and precision hard to believe. Another one came. And another. On my walk back, I watched a young man with his girlfriend coming in the opposite direction. I misjudged him as one who couldn’t care less about a bird, but then I saw him turn. Stop. Watch the skimmer with a look of fascination. It made me smile and feel hopeful.

Approaching the entrance to the beach I used, it was impossible not to see a large area where a group had left over 30 bottles, cans, wrappers and used bottle of sunscreen. I felt sick. In the midst of the largest environmental disaster to ever face our country, here was a deliberate act of laziness and disregard for everything. Everything!

Even on Memorial Day? Our veterans sure as hell didn’t make their sacrifices so that Americans could treat our own country like a pig sty. Sick and angry, I collected as many pieces of trash as I could and went to the garbage bin. A couple settling down to sit in their chairs remarked about how angry it made them, yet when I returned with a bag from my car, they hadn’t lifted a finger.

I collected everything, putting the sandy refuse in a Whole Foods bag made from recycled bottles. I was pissed. I know from years of experience that some people will always litter. They’ll always have shameful behavior without being ashamed.

But what I wasn’t prepared for were countless groups of couples and families on the beach who would stay right where they were, watching. Just watching. It didn't occur to them to clean it up before, and seeing someone picking up the mess, it still didn't occur to them.

As they hear news of the oil spill at night, do they shake their heads with sadness, change the channel, or pray for the sportscast to come?

Do you know people who roll over on their beach blankets and look the other way. What is in their conscience? What's the difference between their inaction and the inaction of those who left the trash to begin with? I'm not sure there is a difference.