Water parks: definitely not my thing

I was a pretty good math student. But even calculus cannot help me develop an equation demonstrating the vast array of complex reasons I avoid water parks at all costs.

Take this photo, for example, captured today by husband during D-Man's birthday trip to Adventure Island. This sort of eye candy just doesn't work for me. I'm so glad she feels comfortable enough to wear a g-string, but um, that's why you invest in a backyard swimming pool. (And might I add, even if you have the perfect bod, I still don't want to see your cheeks in my face.)

Did I mention the grotesque assortment of germs that make entire Woodstocks out of bare feet, free flowing snot and infinite fingers grasping the plastic tubes and side rails? Gag me. No amount of chlorine would convince me that swine flu, hepatitis, innumerable other diseases and general filth don't consider water parks the Mecca of life on the planet.

Add waiting lines the length of those found at any post office in mid-December, blistering heat (or lightening, like today), and the shrill, excited cries of thousands of kids in a small radius---and bam! There you have it. Keep me far, far away.

All that said, the boys are having a fabulous time there today. I will greet them at the front door late this afternoon with a can of Lysol, grab their towels with plastic gloves and boil them for 24 hours.

A Very Special Crappy Surprise

Ever seen the '80's movie "The Three Amigoes" with Chevy Chase, Martin Short and Steve Martin? A cute flick that will make you giggle, although it's a little stupid.

The one line that keeps coming to mind today is a rip off from the film: "You scum sucking pigs! You sons of a motherless goat!" Go ahead, say it to yourself, but with conviction and with drama. I know you can do it.

Now these are the words I have for the creator of the very crappy surprise I experienced today. The first day of my vacation, I just had a few things to do online--things that might take, say, an hour. But, nooooo, no sir. I turned on my sweet HP to discover that the malicious mother of all malwares had been installed. As a consequence, I spent all day living through the drama of getting my life back on line. Frustrating. Expensive. And quite maddening, even for a girl who's feeling excited and liberated in light of her upcoming week off.

I just have one word for the malware creators of this world (other than "scum sucking pigs" and "sons of motherless goats"): karma, baby, karma.

Computer karma is no different than any other karma. You make people's lives hell, and there shall be hell to pay. The great part is, I don't have to do anything about it. It's the law of the world. So long, malware poopers. You'll be roaches in the next life.

Where's it at?

I don't think I can be convicted of being a Grammar Nazi solely for my severe agitation with the word "at" placed at the end of a sentence, where it most certainly does not belong. So I have to tell you, I've had it. If I hear one more person say any of the following, I cannot be responsible for the words that emerge from my mouth:

• I can't remember where I left that paper at.
• Now, where were we at?
• Oh vacation! Where are you staying at?

Frankly, (and perhaps arguably), "at" poses the greatest violation of the "no prepositions at the end of a sentence" rule. Most of the time, the "at" is completely superfluous. Take the "at" out of any sentence above, and it's not only just fine without it, but it's far superior (not to mention proper).

No, you won't hear me say "With whom did they ride?" Although technically correct, it's a little stuffy. The use of "at" as the final word, however, is totally uncool. I have noticed some people get so carried away with it, they might as well add it to every sentence.

In short, at is abused at great lengths at attempts to add extra words where they shouldn't be at.

Best Road Trips in Florida

Who's ready for a trip? I've discovered that you don't have to go too far for some of the greatest little adventures. Before I lived in Florida, I assumed it all looked like Daytona Beach. I had no idea about the sandhills, pine flatwoods, marshes and cattle rancher history that dot the landscape in infinite diversity and culture. Five of my faves are:

1. Everglades National Park. Right there at the top of my list. Stay down at the Ivey House in Everglades City, explore Cypress Preserve and don't forget the tram ride at Shark Valley. Promise it won't disappoint. (You can catch an unforgettable airboat ride through the mangrove tunnels right beside the Ivey House, and at the National Park entrance 5 minutes away, the rangers will get you on a boat ride through the 10,000 Islands.)
   
   
2. Tarpon Springs. The Greeks knew it was special. Stop on by for an intriguing look at the sponge industry, a plethora of olive oil inspired products and Mediterranean food.



3. Gainesville. Admittedly, even while going to school there, it was underrated. Frat parties and football games aren't my thing. But there is an enormous amount of coolness around in terms of natural abundance. Kanapaha Gardens, Payne's Prairie, Devil's Millhopper (an enormous sinkhole where you can get lost in time), San Felasko Hammock, etc. Sooo many it's hard to name. The bat house on campus is a must see--nothing like tens of thousands of bats flying out in a river of insect famished delight!
   
   
4. Of course Anna Maria Island. It's 15 minutes from my house, but even if you're driving from Sarasota, it feels like you're in a different country. I hear the Harrington House is the bomb if you're looking for a quaint night at a B & B.



5. New Smyrna Beach. The fam moved to this little beach town, and it's such a great place to spend the weekend or a week. Nearby is Canaveral National Seashore, where you can enjoy a wild surf, red sand and palmettos right up to the dunes with no sight of condos or buildings anywhere in either direction. Oh yeah, it's also a nude beach. Apparently, there is no federal law against public nudity, and the seashore is federal property, baby. A little scary if you don't know what to expect, but now you're prepared. Merrit National Wildlife Refuge and Kennedy Space Center are right around the corner.

We're headed to Cedar Key for a couple of days, and I hear it's the cat's pajamas. Staying at a Cedar Key Bed and Breakfast owned house overlooking the gulf, with canoes at the water's edge and bikes in the driveway waiting to be used, we're looking forward to exploring. We always teased Ingrid, who seemed to be the official ambassador to the fishing village.

What's on your list? And more importantly, when are we headed out next? I'm game if you are.

Honestly, Flanders...

...you know how much I love you, so is there a need to test that by making me get out of bed EVERY SINGLE NIGHT to let you out at either 2 a.m., 3:14 a.m., 4:27 a.m. or a combination of these?


It seems that you're on a roll now for timed moonlight pee breaks. And I do feel guilty leaving you at home all alone while we're off at work everyday. Based on your limited car rides with us, I'm sure you believe that we're visiting drive-thrus for McFlurries, walking at county parks and going back and forth to the vet all day long.

But, sweetheart, we're actually working. Which means that my behind is tired when I get home. And I could really use the sleep.

All that said, you are still famous enough to have your old pal Gary mentioned in a quiz about Gropius yesterday. That's right, the sweet peeps at work composed a little test about us as a game and included a question about the growth on your head we removed, fondly named by D-Man. Now how is that for recognition?

Wyle E. Coyote, Genius

The most genius tactic emerged at work yesterday...and if you know me, I'm not saying it was at my work.

There's a certain person in the finance department at this unnamed place of business who is notorious for not answering e-mails. The IT manager sent him (or her) a note that said, "I'd like to purchase a yadda yadda and the cost is yadda yadda. If I don't hear back from you, I'll assume it's okay to buy and will go ahead and make the purchase." (Details were left out to protect the innocent.)

Genius!

Granted, it may be funnier if you knew the two individuals. But you have to admit, it's not only witty but such a smart strategy.

...And comparing this to my adoring friend in NC who is desperately trying to get the Counting Crows lead singer to have dinner with her family before their Charlotte show by tweeting the hell out of him on Twitter, this strategy will produce the desired outcome.

H's are so overrated

...And the letter "r" is one hot momma. How did I manage to commit not one but two spelling atrocities in a simple sign commemorating husband's 36th trip around the sun?

"Happy Birtday Larrry!" Love, your idiot wife.

Lipstick Death Toll

It's been a while since I left lipstick in a pocket of dryer-bound shorts. Must be all that relaxation from no child this week.

Anywho, there were several unremarkable casualties, including a 7 year old skirt that matched everything but wasn't so flattering and some random socks and an ugly shirt belonging to husband.

The more devastating losses include a favorite pair of pants, a new dress, two staples of my summer wardrobe, and some work attire (previously) belonging to husband that will be tough to replace. This announcement will be a fun addendum to the "Happy Birthday" afternoon I originally planned for him when he returns from Miami tomorrow.

About 7 years ago, shortly after husband landed his current job, I destroyed all of his uniformed shirts with my favorite red/brown shade by Estee Lauder. Secretly, I mourned the lipstick destruction nearly as much as I lamented over his clothes. He had a great boss who I still picture with a friendly laugh on the receiving end of the "My wife accidentally killed my monogrammed shirts" call.

Like I said, I'm domestically disabled. I have never pretended to be otherwise.

It's Been a Long Time

I know, we haven't spoken in a while. But I've taken some Gropius time.

The little man went to see Miami grandmother, and it was the FIRST EVER week that my husband & I had the house to ourselves. This means the following:

a. Walking around the house in undies is okay again for the first time in what seems like decades.
b. I only had to vacuum once, as 98% of our yard remained outdoors during the course of the week (vs. only 62% normally).
c. There was no arguing, bickering, "I did that!" or other such repetitive nonsense. (See BernThis blog)
d. Husband was unusually relaxed, and
e. We could eat whenever the sweet Patsy we wanted.

So the grand finale is a Saturday, Saturday night and Sunday morning aaaaall to myself. Husband is in Miami for the pick up.

Tomorrow around 12:15 p.m., the front door will open and the dynamic duo will return with the full command of boyishness they both bring when together. It will be good to get back to normal, but honestly, I can't tell you it hasn't been the bomb to have some down time.

Random recycled food worry

Tonight after our Thai dinner, the waitress brought us a pair of almond cookies. Isn't that weird?

We didn't order them and didn't especially want them, but in one quick and thoughtless motion, husband swiped one of them up and licked it. "That's so they won't recycle them and put them on someone else's table," he said.

Naturally, as soon as the words came out, the obvious thoughts came to both of us:

A. How would anyone know they were licked?
B. What if someone already had this same exact dessert in front of them?
C. And what if they, too, licked the cookies?

We finally decided to break the cookies in half.

I know, it's weird. This entire commentary, the dessert choice and our thought process is ridiculous. Why do you think I'm sharing it?

But think about it. In this economy, can we count on all restaurants to refrain from the urge to recycle "untouched" bread, remains of big salads that arrive for the whole table, etc.? I hope to hell we can, but it's a distinct possibility they recycle food. Yes, green can go too far.

Well, well. It turned out just spectacular.

And for once, I'm not being sarcastic.

The only 4th of July injuries were husband's partially julienned finger--a consequence of squash and zucchini preparation--and an ant bite on a 7 year old that turned into a dramatic scene under our oak. It was like a reenactment on an Animal Planet show..."10 Deadliest Bites."

The food was great, and for the first time in the history of this event, I was not the only vegetarian. So in addition to the plethora of carnage options, there was plenty to eat. Ever tried grilled corn in its husk after it's been slathered in butter? Gotta say, that's some good eating.

Husband's firework show was so beautiful and well orchestrated that for a moment, I didn't visualize dollar bills exploding and falling from the sky.

Surprisingly, the only wife beater tank top was worn by a kid from down the street--the same kid who received the red ant visit, so I am now firmly convinced that wife beaters are against nature's laws as well.

And...We're Off!

That's right folks, the wife beater tank top festival has officially begun at the Gropius household. Every year, husband hosts a 6 hour July 4 "event." Neighbors and others basically move in to our front yard, bearing food, a tent to protect the food from summer insects, plastic chairs, and things that shall remained unnamed...not because they're illegal, but because I try not to notice too much.

The night ends with a truly dramatic display of fireworks that husband has amassed throughout the year and carefully assembled for professional execution. We just pray that fingers and eyes remain intact...and that the neighbors who do not care for the noise, smoke and screaming can restrain themselves from calling the police.

Please. Don't feel bad if you didn't get an invite. I try to hide this from all of my friends, as the entire thing is a little "not my taste," shall we say. If I could stop being such a snob for a minute, I would say that some of the nicest people around are here. And the fireworks are awesome.

In closing, my "no wife beater tank top" proclamation is a no go once again this year. And a co-worker is coming, so I will be outed about this for sure. Be sure to tune in tomorrow for a pictorial story of the damage. And have a happy & safe July 4!

Cute. Really Cute.

Husband submitted this one today, taken in a neighborhood with an over ambitious home owner's association no doubt.

Ahhh, Sarasota.

A Recipe & A Random Picture

These two items clearly wouldn't belong in the same post, but two bizarrely opposite requests for Gropius consideration came in this week: 1. publicizing a recipe for summer salsa and 2. a photo of unknown origin (SignSpotting.com?).

So here we go...in opposite order.

...And Brad Fitzgerald's Summer Salsa:

Ingredients

• 1 – 1 ½ pounds of fresh tomatoes (any kind), stems removed
• 1 onion (Vidalias are great!)
• As much garlic as you think prudent
• 1 regular green, red or yellow bell pepper (not hot)
• 1 jalapeño or other chili pepper (stems, ribs, seeds removed)
• 1/2 cup cilantro or parsley
• Juice of one fresh lime
• Salt and pepper to taste. Add a teaspoon of sugar if desired
• Optional: oregano and/or cumin and/or fresh basil to taste
  

Method

1. Finely dice all dice-able vegetables. If you can, avoid touching the chili pepper with your hands. Wash your hands thoroughly with soap and hot water after handling and avoid touching your eyes for several hours. Set aside some of the seeds from the pepper. If the salsa isn't hot enough, you can add a few for heat.
2. Combine all ingredients in a bowl. Stir. Taste. If the chili pepper makes the salsa too hot, add some more chopped tomato. If not hot enough, carefully add a few of the seeds from the chili pepper, or add some ground cumin.
3. Let sit for at least an hour for the flavors to combine, or just refrigerate (in glass or ceramic, not plastic or metal.) The salsa will last in the fridge for up to 2 weeks.
   Makes approximately 3-4 cups.
   

That salsa sounds good. But the "up to 2 weeks in the fridge" part could be a deal breaker, as they say. It would probably sit in ours for 2 months. We're famous for cooking stuff up and not going for the left overs (terrible, I know). As for that picture, well, no comment. It makes me sad... And hopeful. Obviously, the tree cutting culprits aren't the brightest people in the world. ...Or they have a sick flare for sarcasm. What's that brown stuff in the foreground of the picture? Doo doo?

Oops

When my cell phone rings now, it's pure jazz.

This sudden departure from U2's Elevation came last week when my cell went off in a very serious meeting with about 75 people in the room, including media. Unfortunately, we were at the pinnacle of the compelling message when everyone started glancing around trying to figure out where the intrusive noise was originating. I was way, way too far away to run and get it, as that would have caused a bigger distraction...and um, exposed me.

"This will all be over faster if I just wait a few more seconds," I thought, horrified.

And it did. It ended! On with the show.

Until 10 seconds later, when the rap song busted out to let me know I had a new voice mail.

Needless to say, I had to change the ringer on my phone to keep my cover in the future. I'm usually so good with cell phone consciousness.