Focus Grasshopper

Multi-tasking has long been essential to my health and happiness. I am most comfortable when simultaneously engaging in three to five different and completely unrelated tasks.

To stop is to invite an uneasy restlessness leading to who knows what? Chocolate binging? Unnecessary clothing purchases? Fruitless pacing?

But, it has been essential that I stop multi-tasking while directing Tea-A-Ria.

Hold on a sec, I've got to finish this Dove bar...

Now where was I? Oh yes...I was talking about putting the breaks on my multi-tasking. 

It's not as if there aren't a lot of tasks to be done currently. As a matter of fact, the tasks involved in putting together a theater production clearly mimic multi-tasking. Yet as they're all geared towards achieving the same goal, you can't, in all fairness, call the process multi-tasking.

Only semantics, you say? 

Just a moment while I cut the tags from my new capris...

Be that as it may, those of us who live our lives as a web completely understand what I'm talking about. It's almost unnatural to engage in only one project.

But I knew from the get go that this is what I must do - especially as this is my directing debut. And now, we're three weeks out from our opening night! It would be madness to even consider a project not related to Tea-A-Ria.

I'm actually loving this directing thing and so don't miss the multi-tasking as much as I had feared, but I wonder...why on earth do my feet hurt so much.

Zumba's Got Me

I've made a discovery that's rocked my world and kicked my bootie - Zumba.

I know! I'm the one who cannot commit to an exercise class. I'm the one who still cannot do the electric slide.

But I loved my first Zumba class at our Bay Oaks Community Center. Described to me as a mixture of hip hop, Latino and belly dance, it's wildly dynamic.

I was so into it that I didn't even care I was moving forward and left while everyone else was moving backward and right!

But it did do me in. I had planned to catch up with GiGi afterward, a reporter from our local Sand Paper who had recently written an article about me.

When the class began at 6:30, I was certain I was going home to shower and then meet up with Gigi at our newest beach eatery and drinkery, Nervous Nellies.

However, while the shower did go far in making me less sweaty and infinitely more presentable, it also dissolved me into a whiny girl who could not find her way off the couch.

Oooohhh...my back! Grhhhhh...my abs! Ouch...my thighs!

I can't wait til next week!

The picture above are not two women laughing at me. It's myself and my Miss Suzanne of Corpus Christi during her last trip here in February. She'll soon be here again in just a few weeks and trust me, we'll be Zumba-ing. Although, likely neither of us will be laughing so heartily afterward! 

Well wait, that probably not true. We'll likely be laughing more.

Kenny Uncaged

"And now, your winner - at one minute and 52 seconds into the second round - by rare naked choke - KEN-NY NIEN-HAUS....!"

And the crowd went WILD!

And the champ's mother continued to shake for another 45 minutes. I do believe this was more intense than giving birth to the kid!


But Lordy! It was the most thrilling four minutes and 52 seconds of our lives! We can't stop smiling whenever we talk about it.

And what's next? As of yesterday another fight is already in the works. May 8th is being tossed about as a possibility even as I write.

There will soon be a video of it all on YouTube. Do you think you can watch?

I understand some simply can't. But to those folks I'd like to mention this: If I, as Kenny's mother and one of the biggest cry babies on the planet can sit cage side without having a heart attack or a complete meltdown, I think you can handle it. Although...you do hear me screaming like a banshee in the video. 

At one point Kenny threw himself into the air and wrapped his legs around his opponent's waist - while they both were standing! It was CRAZY!

The picture above is one frame from the video I attempted. It's pixel-y and blurry, I know, so here is one from after the fight.

 
That's my boy! 

I believe it'll soon be time to give Kenny a nickname. I'm thinking "The Brick Haus". What do you think?

The Time Is Here

Can even the most hardened of mothers withstand the constant onslaught of comments such as:

"You know those cage fights are way different in real life than they are on TV."

"If you're his mom, you don't belong there."

"I don't get how you could watch such a thing when it's your own kid!"

Several acquaintances of mine actually looked at me with such horror you'd have thought the kid was five and I'd just pushed him into the waiting fist of the school yard bully.

Well let me tell you this. This gentle tea-totin history lover can watch her son in his first cage fight. As a matter of fact I'm so excited I can hardly stand it. Good thing too, since our departure to St. Louis is imminent.

How could I not be excited - and proud - when Kenny has worked so hard. He's already shown us he has the heart and discipline of a champion.

Of course, I do get that as the doors open tomorrow at 2:30 I will likely be a train wreck. I may even need to cling to Donna Failoni, Alex Nienhaus, or Cindi Schmitt - the only women on both sides of the family who feel they can watch.

Although I could cling to just about anyone since Al Hrabosky's is sold out with standing room only! 

So I beg you, wrap us all in calm and send both of those boys - my Kenny and his opponent - your prayers. Wrap them both in white light. To help you keep them in your mind's eye let me tell you this: both weigh 140.

But Kenny is the one standing.

The Perils of Rabbit-esque

Last week I was without stray thoughts. 

And, as I had firmly declined a request to don rabbit ears for the Alice in Wonderland tea I spoke at on Thursday, I hunkered down one afternoon to create a freakishly over sized watch face. Even the rabbit-esque require the proper accessories you know.

I love the top hat and am quite partial to the lace topped white socks as well. In fact, I'm rather attached to the whole thing. But, I quickly learned the perils of dressing even remotely rabbit like.

I was in Tampa the day before my talk and my hostess and I were were standing side by side in front of the J. Crew window at the International Mall. Each of us stood quietly as we studied the perfectly poised mannequin sporting this spring's latest style - a style I couldn't help thinking was somewhat too eclectic. 

"I don't know," I said. "There's an awful lot going on there."

My hostess waited a moment before turning to me.

"Fashion commentary from the woman who'll be dressed like a white rabbit tomorrow?" 

I've never claimed to be a true fashionista but I do believe I've now lost what little fashion credibility I might have possessed.

I also learned that night I've long been buying jeans a size too big! 

I may as well have consented to wearing the ears!

Walking the Line as a Foodie

Just for the record, I'd like it noted that I barely minded being called Miss Granola at the salon in Portland, Oregon where I first began my massage therapy career so many eons ago. And, it's also true that I did make all of my own baby food.

I've long prided myself on my healthy eating. I'm also convinced my aversion to preservatives in my food far outweighs my passion for butter and cream.

But it's not always easy to eat healthy when you're a confirmed foodie. I grappled with this continually in my 20's but it was when I at last found myself making homemade frosting to mask the cardboard-esque flavor of fat free, sugar free, wheat free cookies that I knew I had gone too far. It was time to return to center.

Now I only rarely stray a few steps to either side. Early last week I did try no-carb flour tortillas but I unexpectedly tweaked myself by beginning to ponder what wheat becomes without the carbs. In the end, I tossed those.

Yesterday, by accident, I picked up fat-free half and half. If you take the fat out of half and half, doesn't it become skim milk? I hate skim milk. I tossed it. Not to mention that the pondering of what made it as thick as regular half and half again tweaked me.

Neither here nor there, but I also accidentally picked up orange juice with extra pulp. I meant to pick up the no-pulp (the Florida Nienhaus' are die-hard no pulp people).

But that I just strained. This throwing away of food that now has only elements of real food is making a noticeable dent in my grocery budget. 

How do they get extra pulp into the orange juice? 

So, as adventurous as it sounds, I better wait until next week to try the fat free, black bean brownie recipe.

The picture you see above is a bowl of zucchini "noodles" - one of the many unusual dishes offered at a tea I recently attended at Ms. Tina ________'s home - "Tea in the Raw". All the food was raw vegetarian. It was fascinating and tastier than you might imagine but I confess to a wild craving for a burger on the way home.

A Deep Belly Laugh

I've discovered, just the other night as a matter of fact, that actors - as a group - are a volatile demographic. When you hang with them, you have to expect that sooner or later, some assortment of them will break into improv and you will be left trying your best not to...well you know what can happen once you begin laughing so hard you can barely breathe and your jaw at last begins to ache.

Part of my Tea-A-Ria cast - Ms. Donna, Ms. Carrie, and Doc Sherwood (or if you prefer - Nona Lena, Aunt Sabina, and Tomasso DeLuca) - and I went to Fred's Diner last Thursday night so they could get a feel for the place. Of course, we had to sample the available food and libations. 

It was helpful and so much fun, but never did I expect to be so mightily entertained on the way home. I'm still unsure how poor Doc Sherwood, our designated driver, could even drive the car as he was laughing so hard.

I so wish I could convey what Ms. Donna and Ms. Carrie were saying but alas, it was a moment that defies explanation.

I'll tell you this though, the healing power of deep belly laughing cannot be denied!

And just to be on the safe side, I've now seen fit to make Kegel exercises a daily part of my routine. It would surely be grossly inappropriate for the director to be seen...well, again, I think you know where I'm heading here.

Pictured above is my darling Ms. Carrie - my right arm I might add.

Spontaneous Dance and Bald Eage Cool

The traffic on Fort Myers Beach during our high season is legendary. As a local, I early on developed a zen attitude about it all and so it rarely fries me. It does, however, drive some to the brink of madness.

I happened to be stuck in it at a dead standstill - trying to get back onto the beach - just the other day. Suddenly a handsome, shirtless black teen jumped out of his car and began dancing on the road between the two lanes of traffic.

The man in the vehicle behind me was clearly in a cranky mood. I could see him shaking his head and looking at the young man's moves with growing disdain.

I found this young man to be wildly entertaining. And then it occurred to me. Oh my gosh, what if all kinds of people - young and old - just jumped out their cars and broke into spontaneous dance in this traffic line. 

Can't you see it? Break dancing, ball room dancing, the swim, the twist. How joyful! What a picture op! What a way to pass the time!

I shared this with Dorothy, who grew up here, this morning at our weekly Tuesday breakfast at the Heavenly Biscuit. She told me that prior to our sky bridge and back in the days of the old swing bridge - taken out by a hurricane in 1926 - people anticipated long waits in long lines. People did indeed get out of their cars. But, they visited rather than danced.

I suppose the powers that be would today encourage us all to remain in our vehicles, but I'm feeling a certain desire come on.  I want to break into spontaneous dance in a most unlikely place.

I'm sure some cranky cat will be appalled but I hope such an unexpected vision will bring a smile to some soul in need of it or better yet - they'd get up or out and join me.  

Breaking into spontaneous dance - what if it became a nationwide phenomena?

I love my beach! I took this picture of a bald eagle in the back bay after my husband wooed him with whistles and sweet words in an effort to get him to look our way. He was, apparently lost in thought and paid us no mind at all. But I think he knew we were trying to catch his attention.  He was playing it "bald eagle cool".

Fair Is Just a Word

When either of my kids used to cry "That's not fair!", I had a favorite reply. 

"Fair is just a word, my Darlin." 

This, of course, drove them crazy. More so, I observed, as they maneuvered through their teen years.

Interestingly, that was an era in which I took even greater joy in my little catch phrase. Ooohh, the yin yang of it all! 

Well. My Kenny and Torie Montana have an opportunity to call it back to me for I'm now crying, "This is isn't fair!"

How, I ask, can a woman who's said to have a "mesmerizing" speaking voice not be able to carry a tune if her very life depended upon it. It just isn't fair!

Naturally this is not a news flash in my life. My own mother gave up hope years ago. The very minute she now hears any melody attempting escape from my lips, she says, "Laurie, honey, you're singing again."

But, it occurred to me a few months ago - as I was harmonizing with Sugarland in the car - the only place I can sing without being asked to stop - that perhaps the problem was I had forever been attempting the role of soprano. Should I have been sitting - all these years - in the alto chair?

While it might be late in life to begin a career in music, with a little practice I could surely improve my joyful noise. Maybe those around me might then cease with this cruel covering of their ears. Maybe I might never again hear those cruel words, "Make it stop!"

Ever the eternal optimist, I simply began practicing. Yes, in the car. 

I've lately begun unveiling my personal discovery - via live performances - to those closest to me.

My question now is this: Where do you find people who'll tell you exactly what you want to hear? I've surrounded myself with those compelled to share only their honest thoughts. Brutally honest thoughts I might add. Apparently my circle hasn't the dimmest concept of sugar coating. 

"Hhhmmm...no. Laurie, you still can't sing."

It's SO unfair!

The Q and A

When you perform for a library, you must stay put upon finishing because a QandA is the expected and final act of your appearance.

This isn't a problem unless you know nothing about your topic other than what you've just shared. I learned early on to do enough research so I could anticipate most questions about my subject matter.

But, there is always the chance there's someone in your audience with a mind that reaches.

The first time I experienced this was when doing a Darjeeling tea tasting for a group of investment brokers - mostly men. One gentleman asked, "How many hectares are there in an acre?"

There I was, immediately struggling with irritation...how on earth could he even think of asking a question whose existence and answer had totally escaped my notice. Grhh.....

Thankfully I caught the smartaleck reply before it left the tip of my tongue..."Well sir, perhaps if you tried focusing your attention on darjeeling tea we'd both feel better informed."

It was a lesson well learned and it's been a long time since I've again found myself in such a situation. That is, until this past Wednesday, where after my talk on the militant suffragist Alice Paul, I was tossed a series of unanswerable questions.

What were Alice Paul's three degrees?

What is the origin of the word suffrage?

Where did her Quaker family get their money?

In your opinion, in what election since the 19th amendment have women voters made the most impact?

I don't know the answer to that, nor that, to be honest I've never thought to research that, and unfortunately, perhaps our most recent election.

Actually a woman in the audience threw out the answer to that last question. And, the crowd roared - but I think it was her delivery to which they responded. It was perfection.

In order to head off any more unanswerable questions, I added - once the laughter subsided - "Ladies and gentlemen, I must insist that you ask only those questions to which I know the response."

But that last question was a good one. I wonder what the answer really is?

Clearly I need to dive a little deeper into Alice Paul. And perhaps into political science as well. 

But I can now tell you this. Alice Paul - one of my favorite women in history - possessed a B.A. in Biology (1905), a M.A. in Sociology (1907) and a Ph.D. in Economics (1912).

Oh...and FYI - 1 hectare = 2.47 acres.

More Than a Sweeping Glance

I see words to be put to paper, ideas to be corralled and, lately, an outdoor showering room nestled within a lovely moon garden.

So why, I wonder - with all this "vision" - have I not seen the dirt and grim making itself comfy in my kitchen?

Yesterday morning I slipped on my cream silk writing pajamas. A new blank page awaited, I had just moisturized and my tea had only moments left to brew. Cat Stevens played softly in the background.

And then I stepped on something. Upon picking it up, I was fairly certain it had once been a bleu cheese crumble. I've been out of bleu cheese since New Year's. 

As I studied it, resisting the urge to discover just how long the odor of bleu cheese lingers, my gaze fell upon my kitchen cabinet. When was the food fight?

I could feel panic rising from deep within my chest. My eyes darted this way and that. What was that sticky glob at the bottom of the refrigerator door? Was that a baker's dozen of dead gnats on my light fixture? Was my ceiling fan freakishly misshapen or was it only the measurable dust on the blades' edges that made it appear so?

Cat ceased to play. Instead I heard only the shrieking music played in horror movies just as the heroine opens the one door she should not. My mouth formed a voiceless scream.

Crumbs and Criminy. I had to clean.

I couldn't let Cat back. You can't clean to Cat Stevens. You need the Eurythmics.

Off came the cream silk writing pajamas. My tea grew cold. Out came my capri overalls and strong coffee. Promise you'll never drink tea while you clean! Trust me when I tell you it's just wrong.

I don't really mind cleaning once I get started and, of course, all feels marvelously right with the world once you've finished. I should try to keep up with it all better than I have been.

If only the occasional sweeping glance worked even a little magic!

BTW, the odor of bleu cheese does have some longevity.

And, no, my kitchen was not as bad as the above picture suggests. That was taken years ago upon gutting the upstairs bedroom on Fyler street in St. Louis - the construction site we called home for seven years.

Living on the Edge

I was up before the hens this past Tuesday morning, racking my brain how best to find a place for Marjory Stoneman Douglas in my fashion program. Keep in mind the talk was to begin at one! 

A fashion show just wouldn't have held the least appeal to this woman. I was at a complete loss.

And then, just as I watched the second teaspoon of sugar slip into my tea, it came to me. I should simply pretend she had just entered the room and that I was surprised to see her. That way, I could then throw out lines every once in awhile based on what was going on in the room or upon what I thought she might have thought about what was going on. I asked for a chair so she could be seated to my left.

Essentially, I made MSD my imaginary friend.

"Oh my Goodness! Is it really Marjory Stoneman Douglas! I'm so thrilled you're here..."

Wonk, Wonk, Wonk.

Oh no, I've only just begun...

Wonk, Wonk, Wonk. 

"What am I speaking on? Vintage fashion...it's a fashion show actually." 

Wonk, Wonk, Wonk.

Well...no...Marjory. I...I don't think this will be a monumental waste of your time." 

And it worked! And it was fun for everyone - including me!

But a thought crossed my mind right before my model and 1880's polonaise entered the room. How different might it all play out if I should attempt to bring my imaginary friend with me upon leaving the Marjory Stoneman Douglas Festival and returning home. 

I think it's safe to assume all laughter would come to an abrupt halt, only to be replaced by quiet looks of horror, suspicion and possibly even pity. 

The poor thing, she just snapped!

I tell you, venue is everything! 

BTW, that second teaspoon of sugar? It tends to accomplish much.  Maybe sugar isn't all bad?  

I know, hope springs eternal...

The picture above is my 1880's style polonaise. It was the first reproduction gown I ever made and it's still my favorite.

Marjory's Inspiration

For the last two afternoons I've been deep in chocolate mousse and The Voice of the River, an autobiography of Marjory Stoneman Douglas.

The reason for this is that I'm doing my vintage fashion show, The Stories My Clothing Can Tell, next Tuesday in Everglades City for the Marjory Stoneman Douglas Festival. It was suggested I might try tossing in some information about her during the program. The chocolate mousse was just a whim.

Well as far as I can tell, MSD would likely have cared less about attending a fashion show. I might have been able to hold her attention with the historical elements the show possesses but for the most part, I think this woman saw fashion, vintage or otherwise, as a monumental waste of her time.

But I'm thrilled to have truly discovered her. She's likely best known for her efforts to save the Everglades - which she didn't become involved with until her 90's! Now this is my kind of gal!

It gives me hope that, also as a writing woman with a fondness for elocution, I'll have time to make happen all the ideas mentioned in my last post - as well as the others I didn't mention for fear you'd think me manic. MSD lived til she was 108!

I also hope that after I'm gone someone will say of me, "Death was the only thing that could shut her up, but the silence she's left behind? It's deafening."

Bugger and Blast! There's no more mousse.

Wanted: Dream Manager

There are starry-eyed dreamers and then there are those long-armed dreamers who see their dreams within manageable reach. 

Long-armed dreamers are cloaked in a perpetual aura of busyness that creates a degree of angst in those around them.

"Do you ever just sit?"

"Well, of course...when I'm dreaming."

If you're a long-armed dreamer, you may have only one dream, a variety of related dreams continually bumping into one another, or dreams without the least connection to each other. 

I'm quite thankful I don't fall into this last category. There's likely a tendency to run oneself ragged and I expect exhaustion (or insanity) is a chief complaint of this demographic.

I fall into the second category. Aside from working on Steeped, I've currently two speaking program ideas jockeying for position with: three new play ideas, two short story ideas, one unfinished short story much offended that two others are looking to further extend it's lack of completion, and a new children's book idea.

Or should I chuck it all and begin work on the edgy teatime mystery novel I see brewing?

Which curtain should be pulled open?  I just don't know...and so...

"Help," she cried!

I do believe I'm in serious need of a dream manager.

And a really long life! But, more on that later this week.

Mabury

My maiden name is Mabury.

Go ahead. I long ago learned that people can't seem to help themselves...Mabury RFD? Hmmm...hmmm...I've been hearing that since third grade recess and kickball.

As I've been to only a handful of Mabury family reunions - held each summer at Sam A. Baker State Park in southern Missouri - I don't really know the Mabury's very well, especially the "new" ones.

Back when I was one of the "new" ones, I was known mostly as "the little girl who had the open heart surgery, dontcha know." But between divorces, my dad and aunts dying, cross country moves and life indeed getting in way of the best laid plans, I've never connected with Maburys not in easy reach.

And while genealogy can completely capture my attention, my life as a writing woman hasn't allowed me the necessary perseverance of the confirmed genealogist.

Yet I still managed to find a Mabury! It happened completely by accident. I was really trying to find my Dad. Or rather, where he's buried. I know it's the height of irresponsibility but neither Darcie nor I can remember where he's spending his eternity. 

It was in my efforts to remedy this embarrassing mishap that I chanced upon David Mabury, author of the blog Parlor Mobster.

Awesome name for a blog, don't you think?

Anyway, David and I have been chatting back and forth via email. His dad was my dad's cousin and he spent time with my favorite Aunt, Aunt Anna! How strange to be related to someone, never know him til later in life, yet share some of the same experiences with him. He, too, played with my Aunt Anna's slightly fiercesome chihuahua, Dukey. And he heard Aunt Anna's glorious laugh that I can still hear even at this very moment. What a world, what a world!

I might have to make it to the Mabury Family Reunion this year! Maybe I can find out if it's really true that we've a Hatfield (of the Hatfield and McCoys) and a full blooded Cherokee Indian in our past.

If you'd like to visit David's blog, click on this link: www.mabury.com 

Has the Mabury family reunion caught your eye? I wouldn't attempt crashing but the food is to die for, especially if you're a fan of country cooking: www.maburys.com 

And, Sam A. Baker State Park is a truly glorious bit of the mid-west: www.mostateparks.com/baker.htm 

Do you want to hear something really crazy? My mother's maiden name is Stinson and as David and I have been chatting, an unknown Stinson relative has found Darcie! What on earth is going in the universe?!

The picture you see is my Dad with myself on the left and Darcie on the right. Judging by the look on our faces, we were really looking forward to that dead bird.

Lastly, I have always been a fan of Andy Griffith.