No Cobwebs Here

Focus Grasshopper

2010-04-26T17:06:00.002-04:00

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

2010-04-20T22:04:00.000-04:00

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

2010-04-14T11:48:00.006-04:00

"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

2010-04-09T10:01:00.001-04:00

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

2010-04-07T09:44:00.000-04:00

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

2010-03-25T21:49:00.000-04:00

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

2010-03-23T10:50:00.001-04:00

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

2010-03-16T20:11:00.002-04:00

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

2010-03-12T08:35:00.002-05:00

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

2010-03-05T12:00:00.003-05:00

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

2010-03-01T09:04:00.001-05:00

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

2010-02-25T10:06:00.000-05:00

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

2010-02-18T12:51:00.000-05:00

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

2010-02-15T14:20:00.000-05:00

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

2010-02-12T11:22:00.000-05:00

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.

The Majestic Mermaids

2010-02-04T14:21:00.006-05:00

Have you ever heard of Weeki Wachee or of the Weeki Wachee Aqua Maids? Neither had Suzn or myself when we began collaborating on a new play, The Majestic Mermaids. We were, if memory serves me correctly, over 3/4 through with our script when we learned of its existence.

Darn! So began our first rewrite.

We are, at last, approaching the finish line and think it's time to begin thinking about hosting a play reading. We've lost track of the official number of rewrites, but I think we've settled on four.

There's a good chance our character, Coral Lee of Charleston (that's low country don't you know) could well steal the show but I've below pasted the opening lines of our Lady D for your reading pleasure.

Just keep in mind that Weeki Wachee was quite the Florida tourist destination until Disney and the turnpike came along.

Nothing stays the same, does it? Enjoy...

LADY D’LUNA
Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Let me welcome all of you to a gloriously majestic...and dry...afternoon of swim-along, I mean sing-along. That’s what we’re doing these days since we’ve been left high and dry. That’s right. We mermaids have been beached. In some circles we might call that...surf on turf! Anyway, I am Lady Lavinia D’Luna, the proud daughter of one of the original Weeki Wachee Aqua Maids.
        (raises hands, palms out but close to
         her body as if it is all too much)
I know, I know. My mother’s grace. Her poise. Her...
       (dramatically and comically
         strikes adagio pose)
Adiago! I, of course, was following in her footsteps, until that damn mouse...you know the one I’m speaking of...
       (speaks confidentially)
...he lives in Orlando. Well, I don’t even know why I mentioned him...
       (sings phrase)
it’s a new day...
       (gulps)
after all...it’s a new day...
       (gulps)
after all. OOhhh...I am making progress, I said it twice today.
       (sighs deeply)
That felt good. Although, let me add one more thing? As if that perpetually perky...and might I add squeaky...mouse weren’t enough to rankle me to my very core...let alone sink ticket sales at Weeki Wachee and steal my thunder, but then comes the perfect storm. Thanks to “the developers” a clod of clay the size of a train “mysteriously” found its way into the Florida Aquafir. What, I ask, are the chances of that? Coral Lee says...
        (mimics Coral Lee’s southern accent)
it’s as charmin as swimmin in a snow globe. Phltttt...please, Weeki Wachee is now just one big glass of sour milk. And has been for the last four months
       (puts up four fingers)
Four. We did our best though.
       (reminiscing)
Audiences loved our London Fog Mystery. They clapped and clapped. They really couldn’t see us unless we were six inches from the glass, but they clapped and clapped. However, you can’t sell tickets to the same show for four months straight. Four!
       (holds up four fingers)
and now they say its going to be another five months
       (holds up five fingers)
five! - before the water clears. My nerves, not to mention my pores, couldn’t take it a second longer. But a Majestic Mermaid can swim in or out of water. So now, thanks to my own personal vision, my tireless efforts, and my complete disregard for my own personal well being and mental health, the Majestic Mermaids debuts today! Without further a due let me introduce to you...
        (throws her arm out wide)
...the quartet you won’t soon forget. Behind me is...
        (looks behind her and spins completely
         around, giggles nervously upon seeing
         that she is alone on stage)
Will you give me just...just a moment? CORAL LEE!!!!
        (looks at the audience before
         speaking light and airy)
I mean Coral Lee, darling...Coral Lee? Aren’t you supposed to be right...
        (motions to where CORAL LEE
         should be standing)
...here.

CORAL LEE enters from the rear of the house
and stands in the entrance. She is holding
a large hand held mirror and begins
applying bright pink lipstick.

CORAL LEE
I’m a comin...I told you I needed 5 more minutes.
(to a guest)
Lordy, I can’t tell ya how good it feels to trade those big ol dumb flippers for my new sparklys.
(pushes up her breasts with her hands)
And, it wouldn’t hurt my feelins none if I never had to wring out another falsie...

That's all for now folks. You'll just have to come to the play reading to learn more!

If you want to check out the real Weeki Wachee Aqua Maids, which do still exist, click on this link: weekiwachee.com

And, are you wondering about the picture at the top? These were muffins I was experimenting with and Kenny thought it amusing to use them as a doorstop. Is he a funny guy or what?

Well Now Buckaroos

2010-02-01T14:05:00.003-05:00

I've had my cowboy boots and cowboy hat, in anticipation of my first rodeo, for sometime now. I had mentioned to my Osage Beach friend, Sharon Love, that these acquisitions paved the way for the creation of a dress design long 2-stepping in my head.

Her reply? "Oh, you want to be a cowgirl slut."

"What! No, that's not...I didn't mean...I would never..."

Clearly I'd been less than clear. In my head I saw this feminine, vintage inspired dress with a western influence. I was looking to dive headlong into the rodeo experience. I'd no intention of...savin a horse to ride a cowboy!

Well I never did get the dress out of my head and into fabric but Babs, Dr. Leslie D______ and I still attended the Homestead, Florida rodeo this past weekend.

Where, I might add, literally no one was dressed in anything feminine and vintage inspired. Not one vintage cowgirl was in sight!

My disappointment was profound. Although, the handsome and lanky cowboys, the bucking bulls and broncos and the fried turkey legs did go far in soothing my spirit.

Babs, who has the inside track as she's friends with a few bona fide cowgirls, tells me that most of them see such dress as silly.

Ouch! That leaves a slight flesh wound.

Really! Rodeo's without cowgirl fashions? It's hard to fathom. I mean, they put pink and blue glitter on the hind quarters of their horses but dressy cowgirl fashions are silly dress?

Is this Brokeback Mountain fall out or what? Is it just Missouri and Florida? What's going on here buckaroos?

I might just be finding myself on a mission to bring back something the rodeo people have lost.

The rodeo was a blast! Exciting, scary and funny! And oh my gosh, when those cowboys fall to their knees in a quick prayer of thanks after their ride is through, it just about brings tears to your eyes.

Try as I might, I could never catch a good picture of a bucking bronco. The picture was either blurry or the horse just wasn't in the shot. It took only one try though to get Miss Holly's boots - a rider who took in a rescued horse she calls Charlie Horse. Pretty cool boots, eh? I wonder if they come in a dusty rose color?

When's the next rodeo you ask? March. Arcadia, Florida - www.arcadiarodeo.com

Yee-haw!

Ja Ba La Ba Loo!

2010-01-27T07:27:00.005-05:00

Don't you just love a sparkly day - a day where good news and important events fall at your feet no matter which way you turn? I thought I might have to stay up last night just so I wouldn't miss anything.

Tea in Texas arrived yesterday and features my Texas Tea-Step article - all four and half pages! Ja Ba La Ba Loo!

Anyway, one of my readers, not knowing I had written any plays at all, has asked me how they came about. So below is the answer to this question - as regards to the first play anyway, A Teatime Travesty. Although I fondly refer to my fledgling effort as simply Travesty.

And the picture here is a promotional piece for Travesty featuring my Torie Montana in the middle, my friend Suzn on the left (with whom I'm writing a third play), and her mom, Barbara.

Here you go...

I daresay playwrights and novelists expect to occasionally awake in the morning with a fresh plot eager to spill from their pens. But for a history lover whose writing aspirations have never stepped far beyond the well researched piece on the early 19th century Gothic heroine or the evolution of the Victorian Valentine, etc., it is indeed a rare occurrence.

Yet, this is how the play, A Teatime Travesty, came to be. I opened my eyes one Saturday morning and there it was - complete with the necessary twists and turns. You can imagine my surprise. I arose, made myself a cup of tea and began writing.

I don't want to imply it was easy and all was complete before the day was out. There was, thankfully, research to be done.

I knew the action had to take place at teatime but how does one blend the graciousness inherent in afternoon tea with comedy and murder? How does one dispose of a body during tea? Anything messy seemed grossly inappropriate and anything verging on the calisthenic was clearly fraught with problems. It simply wouldn't do for even one tea hat to fall askew.

It was quite a conundrum, but I quickly saw poison as the answer. Yet which one? I set about my research with the fervent hope that my husband stayed well. I imagined being interrogated by the police should something dire occur. "Ma'am, we understand you were researching poisons in the weeks prior to your husband's demise..."

Aside from the fact that my husband did maintain his good health, I can tell you that, yes, even during the most elegant afternoon tea, it is possible for events to take a most unexpected turn.

xxx

To visit Tea in Texas, click on this link: teaintexas.com

Doors Close, Doors Open

2010-01-25T07:36:00.006-05:00

What's buzzin cousin? Have you been good?

Me? What have I been up to? I've been alternately sloshing about in both awe and angst, which of course, is somewhat time consuming. It also tires a dilly mightily and so I've needed a lie-down here and there during this last two weeks.

Deciding to stop producing Sweet Willa's Review was knotty. This door, once closed, is the last piece of The Ladies' Tea Guild in my life. It's the end of an era. The sands of time have shifted, the universe has tilted yet again and the world is painted in shades of bittersweet.

Give me a just moment while I gently dab at the silent tears rolling down my cheek...alrighty, that passed. It's time to leave off with this Gothic heroine malarkey! I've got work to do.

Literally within days of closing this door a number of doors opened. But the most exciting leads me back to my plays, which I had put on the back burner due to the economy.

But, it now looks as if both Tea-A-Ria and A Teatime Travesty are to be performed in Naples this summer at Fred's Diner, which by the way, is a far cry from being a diner.

And it looks as if I'll be directing! OMG! We've already formed The Paradise Players.

So back to what I've been doing exactly this past week. I've been completely immersing myself in the 1940's, the era in which Tea-A-Ria - likely to begin after Mother's Day - is set.

I can now toss out 40's slang with ease - Hi sugar, are you rationed? (Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend?) I once again have a slinky in my possession (invented in the 40's), and, if needed, I can create a Victory Roll hairstyle and line my lips in maroon lip liner before the kettle comes to a boil.

For your reading pleasure, here are the opening lines from Tea-A-Ria:

LEONIE
  Good afternoon ladies. I am Leonie Palazzotto and I want to welcome    you to Tea-A Ria, a tearoom where you can relax, enjoy a fine cup of    tea, and a bit of old world ambiance. 

NONA LENA calls out    LEONIE’S name off stage before 

entering left. She is brandishing a large kitchen knife.

   
NONA LENA
    Leonie Palazzotto! I’ma not a cuttin the crusts offa the bread! Whoever hearda such a thing!    It don’ta maka no sense!

LEONIE smiles at her guests before    walking to NONA LENA. She    begins indulgently but quickly falls into her Italian accent, talking    louder and waving her hands for emphasis.

   
LEONIE
  Excuse me, ladies. Nona Lena, we’ve already discussed this.    You-cut-the-crusts-off-the-bread-at-teatime! It’s just the way it’s    done!

NONA LENA
    First everything has to be “bite sized”! Now this! I don’ta see how    you’re gonna fill these people up!

LEONIE
(speaks indulgently as she gently nudges                   NONA LENA towards the kitchen)
    Nona Lena, please.  Just cut the crusts off the bread.

NONA LENA
    (to a guest)  

  Does this maka any sense to you. It’s pazzo!

 NONA LENA exits left.

   
LEONIE
    Pardon me, ladies. Italian don’t quite understand teatime. My    Nona Lena wants to put garlic in everything. I tell her, over and over,    you can’t have that much garlic at teatime!  And oh...

(puts her hands to her head) 

...the battle we had    over the vincisgrassi! I say, “Nona Lena, nobody eats cinnamon scented    chicken gizzards at teatime. It don’t matter if it’s in béchamel sauce!"    

(smiles and shakes her head)

 That woman! But  what are you are going to do when your Nona Lena loves you so much and only  wants to help? 

(sighs)  

Now where was I…ah, yes, tea! Today we are serving a marvelous _________. We’ll be bringing out the pots in just a moment. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be sure they're warming...

xxx

Keep your fingers crossed my friends and pray Tea-A-Ria's tag line is true...Teatime goes Italian and it might never be the same!

It's quite amazing what the universe throws at you if you keep your head up rather than trying to duck, don't you think?

If you'd like to check out Fred's Diner, click on this link:

www.fredsdiner.com

When You're Not Audrey Hepburn

2010-01-18T08:03:00.001-05:00

You'd think that a woman who doesn't bat an eye at taking public transportation while wearing an 1880's polonaise would feel confident wearing just about anything. Yet, adorn me with a silk scarf  - such a simple thing - and I'm quickly reduced to an ill at ease fussbudget.

However, upon hearing from a French friend that French women find the silk scarf to be an indispensable accessory, I thought it was time to give the scarf another chance. After all, perhaps I was only scarred by the picture of myself with my sister that you see above. No, that is not a small Russian child with the red scarf wrapped around her head.

So I found a book on how to tie scarves and even went so far, in anticipation of success, as to buy a 32" silk scarf. Yet, the book provided only one idea that held the least appeal: the Audrey Hepburn-ish style of scarf wearing. A bit on the dramatic side but, I've always fancied Ms. Hepburn and I as having the same swan-like neck so I thought I'd give it a try. 

You see the result.

I can't quite recall if Audrey Hepburn actually sported such a look in a movie or if she happened to be photographed in real life wearing a scarf with sunglasses. But one thing I can tell you for certain - you're hailed with suspicion and teased rather mercilessly in this day and age if you lunch while so dressed.

I've concluded that my new silk scarf is best not draped anywhere on my person. However, it does dress up a wine bottle in a rather lovely fashion. So far, I've returned home with it each time, but if I'm ever asked to bring wine to a friend who longs to wear a silk scarf with the grace of a French woman, I'll let her have both the wine and the blasted scarf.

I'm much happier wearing a beret, even though, according to my French friend, a beret is an accessory best reserved for men. I've got to stop listening to this woman. I love my berets!

Would you like directions so that you, too, can carry a Well Dressed Wine Bottle? Here you go...

Lay a 32" scarf flat with a scarf point facing you. Place the wine bottle in the center so the bottle is aligned with the top and bottom scarf points.

Fold the top point down first. Fold the bottom point up.

Wrap the outside points so that they cross each other at the front of the bottle. Tie them into a knot at the bottle's back. The bottom point that you first folded up can now be folded down over the bottle's front.

My friends, this piece originally appeared in the January 2007 issue of Sweet Willa, but I decided to rework it a bit as I've pondered letting go of this on-line publication. I've decided to release Sweet Willa to the universe as it's really the last bit of Ladies' Tea Guild in my life. 2010 is pulling me in a different direction and I can't fight it any longer.

Texas Women Save the Day

2010-01-13T12:07:00.003-05:00

Am full of doubts and angst and worries and woes

I may as well wear my wrinkled clothes

And paint myself

the color of my sheets

Oh my goodness, now isn't that pitiful. What tea does one serve at a pity party anyway? Ahh...of course....

Something old and bitter

 A terrible brew

  Too hot to drink  

                       That's all you're due. 

I'm trying to stop but these foolish lines keep popping into my head! Oh my gosh, what if they never stop!? 

I'm so rarely in a funk but once there it's somewhat of a dark place where I fumble about with even darker thoughts.

Thank goodness my friend, BK of Houston, felt it from afar and called me on it. Her email did me a world of good and likely makes it impossible for me to continue with this tossing out of foolish lines....oh, wait....

I thought another was on its way, but you're safe.

Anyway, I had told BK of Houston I was going to make a batch of biscuits, eat them with mountains of butter and honey and then go to bed. But to save mental health and unneeded poundage, I decided instead to put on my big girl panties and try Miss Suzanne's Seafood Calado. Yes, that would indeed be Miss Suzanne of Corpus Christi. 

This of course requires I get out of my pajamas and join the world. It's a good idea. My clothes aren't really so wrinkled once I take a good look at them. 

Now about this seafood calado...you know you've got fooditude with another woman when all she gives you is a list of ingredients and you don't think twice about it. Here's my grocery list and the slight bit of direction as Miss Suzanne gave it to me. 

Suzanne's Seafood Calado
2 pounds medium shrimp
1/2 pound of scallops
1 pound of tilipia
low sodium chicken broth
chicken paste
orange or yellow bell pepper
1 can chunk pineapple
celery and onion
cilantro
fresh lime
fresh avocado
cumin 
chili powder
 thyme
 pepper

Peel shrimp. Put shells in a pot with 2 cups of water and bring to a boil. Boil for five minutes and let set for 25 minutes. Remove shells and add 2 teaspoons chicken paste. Add 2-3 cups broth and potatoes. Simmer until the potatoes are tender. While potatoes cook, saute onion, celery, and orange bell pepper for five minutes. Add to pot once potatoes are finished. Add seafood, pineapple, and spices. Simmer until fish is cooked. Serve with bowls of cilantro, lime and fresh avocado on the table.

I'm off to the grocers. Sometimes you just need Texas women to help save the day.

I might still need the biscuits though - you know, just to complement the soup.

Silly, silly girl you are
Quit moping about 
For you've come too far,
Get dressed and get going
Get out of the house
Try singing and smiling,
Try not to be sad,
Eat some soup and a biscuit
And just TRY being glad.

Sorry, I couldn't help myself. 

Tatting, Not Tatted!

2010-01-10T23:30:00.006-05:00

Perhaps I need take greater care in my use of the English language. Or, maybe Kenny has developed a slight hearing impairment.

Either way, if memory serves me correctly, what I said was, "Ooohh....tatting...it's so very lovely." 

Apparently he heard something else...

My beautiful boy with his naturally beautiful and completely perfect brown skin! The shock. The dismay. The urge to send him to his room! What is a mother of a 25-year old do when he listens to his own drummer as she has always instructed him to do?

I tried reasoning and was told the human body is a canvas. Then why, Kenny, did they invent canvas?

I tried begging and he laughed. I tried tears - which weren't crocodile and which for a moment seemed to hold the promise of swaying him. But in the end, all talk and theatrics proved futile.

At first, it was almost more than I could bear. If I was ever in need of a lie down, smelling salts and a cool cloth dipped in lavender, it was now.

But, as time has passed, I've become more and more attached to this imagery that has spoken to my son's heart. It's artfully done and possesses a certain intensity that is compelling. The boy has always been complex.

However, my dream of whiling away idle hours with tatting needles in hand and a cup of tea sitting nearby are forever shattered.

Of course I'd be dressed in high Victorian style and overlooking a well-manicured and rambling expanse of lawn!

Oh, well, I wasn't getting very far with the tatting anyway. It's hard and the going is slow!

And my dream of Kenny someday taking up modeling? Alas, that dream too is slowly but surely slipping away.

Now I know how my mother felt when I told her I had no intention of becoming a marine biologist.

Would all of this had played out differently if I had taken up knitting instead of tatting?

See Laurie Pedal

2010-01-08T07:19:00.002-05:00

Despite the scoffing of St. Louis family and friends, it IS cold here in SW Florida. It was 62 degrees IN MY HOUSE yesterday! I feared we might not make it through the night.

Despite hypothermia's slow approach, I bundled up with a scarf, gloves and hat and went for a 9-mile bicycle ride this afternoon on my beach bike - the one with only three speeds, big tires, and wide handle bars designed for slouchy comfort riding.

How marvelous it was! I'm looking to make a long bike ride an anticipated part of each week. Yoga has long served me well but as I careen through my early 50's, the time has come to step up the motion in order to keep all engines running smoothly.

As opposed to sadly clicking along. Oh no, I could never let go of yoga, but something more aerobic and with larger movement feels to also be in order.

I was aiming high with a 9-mile ride that included bicycling over the bridge at the north end of our island. Yes, that would indeed be the high, steep bridge. I made it, too - both ways.

But I thought it was going to do me in and it took all the discipline I could muster to keeping pedaling over that bridge. I kept at it though which is somewhat of a marvel considering that when running, I just stop once I tire. I'm actually incapable of continuing to put one foot in front of the other. But apparently I can continue to pedal even when my lungs are about to explode.

So anyway, I was feeling pretty good about this but on my way back, three serious bikers - hunkered down on their sleek 20-speed bikes, with their bicycling outfits and matching helmets, passed me at the speed of light. Show offs!

They probably rode more than nine measly miles though, didn't they? But did they go over that darn bridge? That's the question I'd like answered.

Not enough to follow them, mind you...

And no, I can't do exercise classes. No matter how badly I think I want to, the moment I pull into the parking lot the merest sliver of a reason causes me to drive away. It's too sunny, my water bottle's only half full, I brought the wrong socks, I didn't bring a snack for the ride home, I need gas...you get the picture.

BTW, Doc Ford's is one of our newest bayside restaurants. It's a rambling sort of place with live music and awesome food. I'd suggest the shrimp flatbread followed by their rum infused carrot cake. You can visit them at www.docfords.com.

He's a Beast

2010-01-06T07:20:00.000-05:00

The word on the street is this: She can't do it. Apparently some are even laying bets I can't do it.

Oh ye of little faith!

Yes, I do abhor violence. Yes, I do cringe mightily at the sound of a punch. Yes, I did once shed tears at the grand opening of a Target store.

But really, what does any of that have to do with me not being able to watch my crazy handsome first-born participate in a cage fight?

Of course I can watch it. I mean, after all, the kid has been a mixed martial artist for years now. He's wildly disciplined, is in serious training five days a week, eats well, meditates, and gets the importance of massage. He's doing everything right.

And our dear friend, Jay D'Mato of the California Martial Arts Academy...who I trust implicitly with my son's well-being, says Kenny is a beast at 135 pounds.

Really? My son? A beast? I wanted him to be a model but there's plenty of time for that.

What does all this say to me? It says that not only will Kenny win, the other kid doesn't even have a chance of landing a punch. Or a kick. Or one of those headlock things.

What's with the smirking? I tell ya, this is gonna be a breeze to watch!

As a matter of fact, I almost feel sorry for the other kid. I hope he doesn't suffer much at the hands of my son. If I were his mom, I'd be sure to have lots of ice on hand.

Oh...and one more thing. Your kid's gonna need more than ibuprofen...cause my kid's gonna...

Excuse me. I got carried away for a moment there.

That happens I guess. This is probably why Jay has already instructed me that under no circumstances am I to enter the cage.

And, if the other kid's mother (or any relative) is sitting nearby and busy with their own cheering, I'm not to say anything along the lines of, "Hey! Do you %$&@#* mind? My boy's trying to concentrate here!"

April - in St. Louis...front and center. I'm there. No matter what.

No matter what.

No matter what.

No matter what.

Oh my gosh, wasn't he a darling baby? And NO! I'm not ready to let go of the modeling thing yet!

Empty Pages

2010-01-04T08:05:00.001-05:00

Troubling bits of New Year's Eve angst aside, I love the thought of the new year. I imagine all planner bees do. A clean slate, a fresh start and...a new blank notebook.

Oh, the joy of a new blank notebook! The sensuousness of caressing those cool, empty pages - pages patiently waiting for you to oscillate. Their blankness is both invitation and temptation. There's the promise of passion - an affair waiting to begin.

And of course you begin with the greatest of tender intention and of showing yourself to advantage. The handwriting is your very best. There are outlines with spacious margins and lots of polite white space. Pink and blue highlighters wait in the wings. Mechanical pencils and new erasers are on standby.

But that's all fairly short-lived. It never takes long for even the loveliest of notebooks to take on the appearance of a relationship gone a muck.

Oh, there's clearly still passion. But now it's stormy rather than tender. It's all over page with arrows pointing to partial thoughts and ideas. There's scribbles and tea stains and doodles and words you can't begin to make out. The polite white space disappears as if your lover is determined to have the last word.

Does knowing this is to be the eventual outcome make it difficult to write that first word? There is a moment of fleeting regret but as you know, I love a good storm.

And after all, there's lots of notebooks in the sea.

Moleskines (pronunced mol-a-skeen'-a) are my favorite notebooks. They're said to be legendary and have been used by Van Gogh, Picasso, and Hemingway. Are you up for stormy passion this year? If so, you just might need a new notebook of your own. If that's the case, visit www.moleskines.com.

Letting Go

2010-01-01T21:18:00.003-05:00

It happens every New Year's Eve. There are moments throughout the day when the thought of what the new year might bring scares me silly.

If I were generally a fearful missy this might be easily explained away. But, aside from my fear of black licorice, touching cigarettes, and of anything tight around my neck, I'm just not one to be haunted by irrational fears.

Wait...I almost forgot about frogs. Frogs send me into a panic.

And, OMG! Is anything more frightening than an old empty wooden wheelchair? I almost can't even write about an OEWWC without starting to hyperventilate!

Oh brother! Maybe Jay McD____ is right. Maybe you CAN call me crazy!

Although it looks to be an action packed year and these crazy, irrational fears are not high priority, I might try finding the time to let some of this go. I could well be munching on a piece of black licorice while wearing a turtleneck and buying cigarettes before the year is out!

But frogs and an OEWWC? I doubt 2010 is the year to deal with fears of such magnitude. I'll stick to the techniques that have served me well so far - covering my eyes and/or running away screaming.

And speaking of letting go...I took the above picture from the car in northern Florida when we were driving back from St. Louis on New Year's Eve day. I don't get this flying the confederate flag thing. Somebody, please! Tell me what I'm missing.

By the way...Happy New Year!

Crazy

2009-12-29T11:34:00.002-05:00

It appears as if No Cobwebs Here has gone dark for a few days, doesn't it? I've been so faithful with posting three times weekly since becoming a blogger it drove me crazy that I had broken my own schedule.

Really crazy. But then it occurred to me it was likely crazier to agonize so over a volunteer schedule of my own creation. Especially as I'm supposed to be on Christmas holiday.

And to tell you the truth, although it seems as if being away would give me mountains of material, I've been too cold to be the least bit witty. I had nothing for you. Apparently light snow and near freezing temperatures fog this Florida girl's brain.

No, I'm certain it wasn't the straight up Yukon Jack. That episode, BTW, was merely an attempt to fuel dying embers. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Anyway, this got me to thinking. What is crazy really? Is it a pink and green drawer (Post 12/11/09, Murky Filing)? The desire to scare a goat (Post 12/07/09, I'm Not a Mean Girl)? A fourth Yukon Jack?

The craziness of others makes for riveting conversation. And upon stepping for a short time back into the life and dramas of extended family, one could spend hours being riveted (or possibly tormented).

However, it's perhaps saner (and possibly kinder) to consider my own possible craziness which I am this morning doing. I'm going to give you only three examples and leave you to decide where I might fall on the spectrum. I know you'll keep in mind there's much between sane and crazy. Nonsensical, silly, quirky, zany, and simply hearing one's own drummer drumming too loudly immediately come to mind.

Here you go:

1. I often listen to only the same CD...over and over...for weeks at a time. (I've done this ever since Michael Jackson came out with I'll Be There when I was in middle school. Merely nonsense?)

2. Regardless of how awful a book might be, I cannot make myself stop reading it once I start.(Although I confess to speed reading which I don't really know how to do. A tad quirky?)

3. If I've been out with others or at a party - even if I'm having a blast - I must be alone for awhile afterward. Otherwise, I become the poster child for Crabby Cat. (I might have to concede to crazy - or close to it - on this point.)

The picture at the top of the page epitomizes crazy, don't you think? It's actually an element seen at St. Louis' City Museum, an incredible museum for both young and old that is so unique you can hardly explain it to others.

The two you see above are my favorite young people on the planet - my Kenny and Torie Montana. It's a joy for me to see them together. What you can't hear of course, is Torie urging me to hurry with the picture taking because she was freezing. We've become Florida wussies!

If you'd like to check out the City Museum, click on this link:
http://www.citymuseum.org

Happiness

2009-12-23T08:57:00.003-05:00

Happiness has been on my mind these last few days, likely because December finds some I know riding the roller coaster that is the dark magic of Christmas. I can't quite let go of wanting to do something for those friends who fall into a funk this time of year - even though both they and I realize their funk is fleeting.

We all know happiness doesn't wait for us to follow him but sometimes it does seem as if he's, quite unkindly, put on an invisible cloak. You feel he's nearby yet you can't quite lay your hands on him.

But if you're lucky, you might find yourself accidentally bumping into him on your way to a rum ball.

Is there a chance that a wildly silly poem can carry some even a short way to the other side? Keep in mind my poem is not a life boat. It's more like one of those colorful noodles you carry to the beach.

Also keep in mind I'll be there waiting...on the other side.

Let's sally forth with whimsy

And let laughter take the lead,

We'll sail away from worries

And cast spells of make believe.

Let's sashe on past yesterday

And toss coins at Father Time,

Tip the moon into a teacup

I'll share whatever's mine.

Let's pin pink posies to our shirts

And spin daydreams by the sea,

We'll learn a silly language

And converse with all the bees.

We'll dance beneath the midnight stars

We'll ride the waves til dawn,

My soul will sing a song of joy

That you have come along.

By the way, according to the book Happiness: A History, it wasn't until the late 17th century Enlightenment that happiness as we know it came to be. The Enlightenment's faith in the promise of happiness is how it's pursuit became one of our self-evident truths. And, all data seems to point to certain truths:

1. People are really no happier now than they've been since such studies were first conducted in the 1950's. Thank goodness! For a minute I thought they were going to say we all have to start doing the Mash Potato again! 

2. While there's some correlation between happiness and material prosperity, it ceases to be a factor at a certain financial mark - an amazingly low mark actually. We should be extraordinarily happy about that lately!

3. Contentment in family, friendship, and social relations does seem to have a bearing. Ya think!?

4. You're likely to be happier if you live in a non-communist country and if you're satisfied with your work. It is rare to see a communist smile now that I think of it.

We've made a last minute decision to drive to St. Louis for Christmas and New Years. It's an eighteen hour drive and we're leaving at noon on Christmas Eve and driving straight through. Keep your fingers crossed, my friends, that we don't run into any weather. Wrap us in white light, too.

White light! Not snow!

Tending to Marriage

2009-12-21T08:41:00.004-05:00

I've long held fast to the notion that every marriage needs a shrine.

Ideally, a marriage shrine should speak to your heart and to the best of your life with your spouse. It should be the first stop when the inevitable tough times roll in.

Gazing upon your shrine helps you remember the whys of your marriage - why you love each other, why you make each other laugh. And, why one of you isn't buried in the garden under the moon flowers.

My own marriage shrine consists of five photos, each capturing a moment I feel to be the essence of Kenny and I, our "us-ness" if you will. And, I have indeed found it helpful throughout the years to stand before these photos and remember the whys.

It's best not to approach your marriage shrine with a pink magic marker in hand - the temptation to draw a mustache and freckles has, on occasion, been almost more than one could bear.

Although historically I've had to sometimes drag him to it, Kenny has mostly been on board with our shrine as a road to marital bliss.

But now he's come up with what he thinks to be a better plan. Naked sword fighting.

You just said it out loud, too, didn't you? Naked sword fighting. I did the same thing as Kenny unveiled his plan while opening the box of two wooden swords that arrived with Saturday's mail.

"How on earth could naked sword fighting ever fix anything?"

"Oh, I'm not sure it would fix anything. But it might. Maybe we should practice." Does she detect a wicked smile? "How about now?"

I walk to the kitchen and begin rummaging through my junk drawer.

Kenny follows me, swords in hand. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm looking for my pink magic marker."

Going Red

2009-12-18T08:50:00.000-05:00

In these rough and tumble economic times we must use all resources at our disposal. Even those that appear unlikely.

I've never considered myself a student of Feng Shui, but I've read some on the topic and discovered I naturally leaned towards its corner.

But I've now decided to cling rather than merely lean, especially as I've seen a flamboyant example of Feng Shui working its magic.

You may remember my mentioning our rental property, a place we suddenly found in dire need of remodeling (Friday, August 28, Changing Your Emotional Drift). Although I haven't mentioned it since, this effort has occupied a substantial portion of our late summer and fall. (I do hope you appreciate my lack of whining about this, by the way. Not all in my life have been so fortunate.)

Babs suggested I paint the front door of this property red as, according to the tenets of Feng Shui, red insures prosperity, abundance,and success.

So get this...on the Sunday before Thanksgiving I put the last coat of paint on the door and drove away. Not five minute later I received a call from a man who ended up moving in Thanksgiving weekend! And, we believe him to be a dream of a renter. And the angels sang on high!

So not only have any Feng Shui doubts been put to rest, I've painted my own front door red (as you can see above).

But I can't stop with just painting the door. I'm now on the search for three Chinese coins to hang from my red door. I must also install a pond and a waterfall and purchase a colorful gazing ball. Lastly, my mailbox must be transformed into something fun.

This is all in the name of prosperity, abundance, and success of course, but you do wonder who thought all this up. I know they say the Chinese, but...I think it might have been realtors.

It all sounds suspiciously like nothing more than improved curb appeal - plain and simple.

We'll see. Once I'm ready to sell this property, I'm going to bury a statue of the Virgin Mary upside down in the front yard. Just to be on the safe side.

That's not Feng Shui though, is it? What on earth is that about then?

What a world, what a world!

Cherry Chocolate Surprise - Installment II

2009-12-16T03:51:00.006-05:00

Above you see myself and my friend, Dorothy Rodwell, at the Mound House Holiday Tea this past Saturday. What a lovely day it was.

As I'm the publicity gal for the Friends of the Mound House as well as the editor of our newsletter, The Gumbo Limbo Gazette, I was busy taking pictures when I wasn't munching on shrimp with fresh lime, a sea grape jelly roll, fruit salad, and Dorothy's famous cornbread.

I sat with the Friends of Matanza's Pass Preserve and, as these folks take care of our island's 60-acre preserve, all our food was native to Florida.

Our table was also quite gorgeous with native foliage and berries but we, alas, didn't win the best table prize. Our theme was Caring for the Land Through Time so we were each dressed to represent a different era. I was 1910's while Dorothy was Civil War. We even had a Caloosa Indian at our table.

Anyway, below is the 2nd and last installment of Cherry Chocolate Surprise. Enjoy...

Aunt Ruby chuckled. "Did I tell you about the dream I had last night, my Little Moon Muffin?"

India May shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and turned to wipe away the splatter now slowly making its way down the wall. She licked her fingers and then dropped into a split.

Aunt Ruby clapped her hands. "That’s perfect! Anyway, I dreamed Gertie Callister came knocking on our door to tell me her butterscotch bonanza had burned in the oven. She begged me to give her my cherry chocolate surprise!" Aunt Ruby sighed. "It was a lovely dream."

After several more messes and much more spoon waving, Aunt Ruby slid her Cherry Chocolate Surprise into the oven. She set the oven timer and, while the cake baked, she made a pot of India May's favorite lemon rose tea.

Aunt Ruby buttered a maple pecan scone and handed it to India May. "Hmmm...are you sure I shouldn't have added just the tiniest bit of maple syrup?”

India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

"You’re right. You always are, you know. Here, eat this scone my Angel Creme and then show me one of those ballerina leaps, those grand jetes."

India May ate three maple pecan scones and drank two cups of lemon rose tea before she began practicing ballerina leaps for Aunt Ruby.

She leaped four times before the oven timer went off.

BZZZZZ!

Aunt Ruby took a deep breath and so India May took one too. Aunt Ruby gently opened the oven door and she and India May both peered inside.

"Do you think it's done?" Aunt Ruby asked. India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

"I think so, too." Aunt Ruby carefully took the cherry chocolate surprise from the oven and set it on the table.

Stepping back, she whispered, "It looks light enough to float away."

India May followed behind Aunt Ruby as she quietly walked around the table. She studied the cherry chocolate surprise from every angle. Finally she turned to India May and caught her in an enormous bear hug.

"It's perfect! Why, it’s as perfect as...as your plies and those grand jetes! Grab my purse Spring Pea. We're going to the Teatime Bake Off."

While India May looked for Aunt Ruby's purse, Aunt Ruby began searching the pockets of her apron. She pulled out one of India May's pink barrettes and a white feather India May had given her the day before.

"Now where on earth did I put those directions? Ah...here they are." She pulled a crumbled piece of paper from her apron pocket and flattened it onto the kitchen table. "What time is it, Honeycomb?"

India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She didn't know how to tell time yet.

Aunt Ruby glanced up at the clock above the stove. "Oh no! The bake off started fifteen minutes ago! We're late!"

Aunt Ruby tossed the directions into the air, jumped from her chair, and headed for the door. Remembering that she needed to bring the cherry chocolate surprise with her, she spun around and raced back to the table. Scooping up the cake, she turned again for the door. At the exact same moment India May saw the egg shells still on the floor but there was no time to warn Aunt Ruby.

As Aunt Ruby stepped on them, her feet slipped out from under her and she landed with a thud on the kitchen floor. For an instant, it looked as if the cherry chocolate surprise was really going to float away, but then it too landed with a thud and a splat on the floor next to Ruby.

"Oh no," she moaned as she saw the cherry chocolate mess that lay around her. "Gertie Callister gets to keep my blue ribbon for another year."

Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, Aunt Ruby loudly blew her nose. She sighed as a glob of chocolate slid off her cheek.

A slow smile, just the tiniest bit sad, spread over her face as she wiped away her tears. She sighed a huge sigh.

"I guess I'll need help cleaning this up.""

India May grinned, shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She ran to the kitchen drawer, pulled out two spoons, and sat down on the floor next to Ruby.

"Well my darlin Sugar Cookie, you may have the honor of the first bite."

Aunt Ruby watched nervously as India May dug her spoon into a swirl of cherries and chocolate that lay by her knee. She watched India May nervously until India May swallowed.

"Well?" she asked.

India May pulled a folded envelope from the inside her tutu and handed it to Aunt Ruby.

Aunt Ruby opened the envelope and pulled out a circle of blue paper with two blue ribbons stapled to the bottom. In pink glitter was written a very crooked number one.

Tears again spilled from Aunt Ruby's eyes and India May was again caught in an enormous bear hug.

It was most definitely a blue ribbon cherry chocolate surprise. It was also a blue ribbon afternoon.

So what do you think? Is it a story worth pursuing? Do you think K through third grade would enjoy it? Talk to me!

I'm not sure how long they'll be up, but click below if you'd like to see more pictures of the Holiday Tea at the Mound House:

http://cu.fortmyersbeachtalk.com/galleries/301590/

Cherry Chocolate Surprise

2009-12-14T10:11:00.000-05:00

Ahhh...between tea-ing and visiting family, I've fallen tragically behind this weekend. So today I'm posting the first part of a children's story I've been working on that I'd love your feedback on. I'll post the entire story in segments this week - it's  short and sweet.

I beg you to imagine it wonderfully illustrated. Are there any artists in the house?

I've must run now as my Mama, Darcie and I are going to sit and watch an episode of the Midsummer Murders before heading to lunch and the airport.

Enjoy and tell me what you think? I think I see India May with glasses...

Little India May didn't see her Aunt Ruby come to a complete stop in the baking aisle of the grocery store.  She bounced off Aunt Ruby’s back side and landed in a very un-ballerina like heap on the floor.

"There's Gertie Callister," Aunt Ruby whispered to India May, not seeming to notice India May now lay sprawled on the floor of the baking aisle. "Did you see that? That sly ol' Gertie just picked up a bottle of maple syrup."

Aunt Ruby looked down at India May as if India May always sat sprawled on the floor of the baking aisle. "Do you think maple syrup is the secret ingredient in her butterscotch bonanzas?"

India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She usually never knew the answers to Aunt Ruby's questions. She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders a lot.

India May started to get up and Aunt Ruby bent over to brush the dust off India May’s pink tutu.

"Well, my Little Banana Dumplin," Aunt Ruby went on, "You know how I feel about Gertie's butterscotch bonanzas. They're too crumbly for my taste."

Gertie Callister disappeared around the corner as Aunt Ruby started again pushing her cart down the baking aisle. India May straightened her glasses and followed Aunt Ruby, this time from a safer distance.

As Aunt Ruby and India May walked by the syrup, Aunt Ruby picked up a bottle of the maple and turned to India May.  "Do you think maple syrup would be a nice touch?"

India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

"You're right."  Aunt Ruby put the maple syrup back on the shelf.  "Let's go home, Sweet Peach. It'll be teatime soon and there's still chocolate to be shaved."

India May giggled as she imagined a huge chunk of chocolate covered with shaving cream waiting patiently at home for Aunt Ruby.

Smiling, Aunt Ruby, asked, "What's so funny, Kitten Cake?"

India May shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.  She then spun in a perfect pirouette for Aunt Ruby right in the middle of the baking aisle.

Aunt Ruby clapped her hands. "Perfect! Absolutely perfect!"

Once at home, India May practiced her plies in the middle of the kitchen.  Aunt Ruby bustled around India May, pulling bowls from the shelves, eggs from the refrigerator, and flour from the cupboard. Aunt Ruby didn't notice that the bag of flour left a snowy trail behind her as she carried it across the room.

She cracked three eggs into one of the bowls and didn't notice the shells that fell to the floor.  She rushed over to the stove just in time to stop melting butter from bubbling out of the pot.

She then began furiously beating the eggs and melted butter together with a large wooden spoon. She didn't notice that most of the butter and eggs were flying out of the bowl and falling onto the table.

India May liked watching Aunt Ruby bake. She liked pretending Aunt Ruby was a mad scientist mixing up purple monsters wearing pink tutus. Sometimes she pretended Aunt Ruby was a good witch stirring up magic potions that changed fire-breathing dragons into flying puppies.

Aunt Ruby stopped stirring and declared, "By this afternoon, Puddin Cup, that blue ribbon will be right back where it belongs! Right where it should have gone after last year's Teatime Bake Off."

She waved her wooden spoon at an empty spot on the wall behind India May. India May ducked as a large glob of the egg and butter mixture whizzed by her head and landed with a splat on the wall.

To be continued...

Murky Filing

2009-12-11T04:35:00.003-05:00

It's likely because I'm not one to leave stacks of papers lying about (at least for any length of time) that I've long thought my filing skills left nothing to be desired.

Kenny, on the other hand, would disagree. He's basing that solely on the fact that, back in the olden days when names, phone numbers and addresses were put into a small book kept near the phone, our family's book had names listed alphabetically - by first name. For those puppies among us reading this, we called that book an Address Book.

This seemed completely normal to me but was a minor source of aggravation for Kenny. However, since he was more prone to saying, "Lar, can you get me so and so's phone number," as opposed to having the least intention of seeking out the address book himself, we did it my way.

But lately I seem to have trouble finding this or that piece of paper. Since there are no papers lying about I know what I need is filed somewhere but for the life of me I can't quite put my fingers on it. You'd think it could be under Taxes, Accountant, or possibly Papers I Might Need in 2010, but it's not.

Heavy Sigh. I think Kenny might be right. My filing system may be a little murky.

It's much easier in my closet where last year I began experimenting with a new system. I started with a green drawer - all my green clothes went into this drawer regardless of whether they were pajamas, sweatshirts, skirts, or undies.

This worked so well for me that this past spring, despite the scoffing of friends and family, I created a pink drawer.

My system still has a few kinks to be sure. Prints are an unusually broad category I've yet to address and I'm completely baffled as to what to with muted shades, but I think you can see the potential. It could just be HG TV worthy.

Oh wait! It just came to me! What I need is filed under Ick! Of course!

Although Kenny appears to be frowning in the above picture, I think it's mostly an illusion created by the Fumanchu moustache. Once he reads this post and sees that I agree he's right, he'll be smiling large.

He'll also probably want me to say, "You were right." He just loves that.

Graciousness Gone Mad

2009-12-09T09:24:00.001-05:00

Texas AandM holds an annual contest to find the most appropriate definition of a contemporary term. The 2007 term was political correctness and the following definition won:

"Political Correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end."

I find this a brilliant window into the foolishness of those who hold political correctness so dear. The problems that inspired political correctness will no more be fixed by political correctness than boxed color fixes the gray in my hair. The gray is only covered, sometimes barely and only temporarily. New gray grows and the boxed color either fades or becomes brassy. Much to my chagrin I might add.

And why, you ask, do I bring this up? I've had the unusual experience of being told I was politically correct. Twice within the last two weeks! 

I can't tell you how this tweaked me. Both times I felt a momentary twitch in my left eye. 

Both times I indignantly, and somewhat shrilly, cried out "What!"

I quickly learned that both times people were trying to tell me they found me to be gracious and kind. 

Well now. Alrighty then. That I like. Thank you. And, please, pardon my indignation and that wee bit o' shrill.  

But light has now been shed. People are equating graciousness and kindness with political correctness? Yikes! Egads! Oh, Good Gracious Miss Molly! I see this as a problem for I can't help but think political correctness is graciousness and kindness gone mad. The pendulum has not just swung to the other end, but has been flung into the ether.

Shall I always strive to be gracious and kind? I should hope so. But I also hope to always stop short of political correctness. I must, for my instinct tells me this ultimately creates nothing but nonsense. And worse, larger ill will.  That I wish to have no part of.

On that note, I wish all a very Merry Christmas. And please, Happy Hanukkah or Kwanzaa me back. It won't offend me in the least. I'm a big girl.

To learn more about the history of political correctness, this small phrase created by small minds, click on this link:

http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1G2-3401803309.html

I'm Not A Mean Girl

2009-12-07T06:52:00.006-05:00

Did you know that if you hit a lizard with your hose on jet he is catapulted into the air and lands a good four or five feet from where you blasted him? It's tremendous fun when you're watering.

On the chance you're now thinking I'm a mean girl, I beg you keep a few things in mind.

First, I've seen lizards jump from my second story deck and then race away. They've no qualms about leaving their tails lying about as they...then race away. And, they can dramatically lower their respiratory rate, making it possible for them to survive the toxic, termite killing gases blown into a tented home - gases that can do even a human in. Yes, they do then...race away once the tent is removed and humans again enter the premises.

God clearly made a sturdy creature with the lizard.

I like to think the acrobats I instigate are nothing more than harmless shenanigans for the both of us. And I must say, a lizard looks almost joyful as he flies through the air. Especially if you can hit him the slightest bit on the underside so as to catch some air under him as he sails from you into the sunshine.

But now I've a longing greater than that of blasting a lizard into the air. I want to scare a goat.

I'd be the first to agree it's an odd longing. And, until Babs made me aware there are species of goats that fall to the ground in a temporary faint upon being frightened, I didn't even know I'd want to do such a thing.

It perhaps sounds cruel, but if you see it...well, it's hysterically funny. If you doubt my words you must search YouTube for "scared goats". When you do, you'll find videos such as this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnnGZnOanz0

Oh my gosh, I LOL every time I see it.

On the chance you might still think me a mean girl, know that yesterday I was a judge for the first annual Hounds on the Mound here on Fort Myers Beach. I judged the Ugliest Dog and Most Talented. I also voted on the People's Choice for Best Costume.

They don't let mean girls in on that.

The picture you see is Buster, the very kewl poodle belonging to my neighbor, Jessica Titus. Buster usually falls down and plays dead when Jessie cries, "Bam!" He was somewhat less than cooperative yesterday so the Santa spaniel pulling the sleigh won Most Talented. It was a tough call though!

Jessica Titus is my favorite Beach Realtor by the way. Her company is Fort Myers Beach Realty, www.FMBeachRealty.com.

Ghosties and Travel Tales

2009-12-04T03:36:00.001-05:00

Thank goodness I'm an avid note taker as I'm only this week getting around to writing the travelogue about my Texas adventures.

I was not procrastinating! I've just been wildly busy and as I'm often compelled to mention to my husband, "There's only one of me."

Why does he find that so funny?

Anyway, I'm calling it A Florida Girl Does the Texas Tea-Step and I beg you to keep your fingers crossed that Tea in Texas Magazine accepts it.

I had never written a travelogue before and the few I've read were somewhat less than riveting. Unless, of course, there's danger, restless natives, or a flash flood in the canyon. None of which I can say highlighted my time in Texas. They did forget to bring the guacamole for my enchilada at a restaurant in Corpus Christi, but that hardly bears mentioning.

I felt it necessary to Google "How to Write a Travelogue," but after 45 minutes I felt perhaps I was verging on procrastination. So I just began.

Then I feared the piece was going the way of the shawl I once tried knitting, which before I knew it had somehow reached a truly unruly length. After many cups of tea and 1500 words, I'm ready for a final proofing. It's a hefty piece so I'm hoping the editor of Tea in Texas is short on content for her January issue.

Here's how it starts:

Fort Myers Beach: Where are my teapot jammies? I can't start the Texas Tea-Step without my teapot jammies. Ahhh...there they are. Good bye Fort Myers Beach. I hope Lyle Lovit's words are true: "That's right. You're not from Texas. But Texas wants you anyway."

If the article is accepted you'll be among the first to hear of it. For now I'd like to send you to the web site of the Driskill Hotel where we had tea in Austin. It's an iconic Texas landmark and also the most haunted hotel in all of Texas. 

Authentically haunted I might add. An episode of Ghost Hunting and Milkshakes was recently shot at the Driskill. Concrete Blond's lead singer, Johnette Napoliatno, had such a profound ghost experience there that she created a music video about it called Ghost of a Texas Ladies' Man. To see these videos and learn of other Driskill ghost stories, click on the link below.

You'll also be able to see videos of performers such as Jewel.  She recorded one of her songs at the Driskill as well. Nothing ghosty there though.

http://www.driskillhotel.com/video-gallery.php

Post Thanksgiving Events

2009-12-02T07:32:00.002-05:00

Several events unfold during this week following Thanksgiving. Aside from my family's united front that my creative use of turkey come to an end.

My Santas leave their boxes and patiently wait for the Santa tours to begin. Both they and my family are required to participate in these tours which involve much reminiscing and choosing of new favorites.

I make a double batch of rum balls. You're supposed to let them sit for two weeks for the flavor to develop but if you make only one batch there are no rum balls by day fourteen.

I take my night yoga onto the front deck. Orion, Taurus and Gemini do much to encourage my yoga practice this time of year and currently I'm in need of tremendous encouragement if I'm to master the bird of paradise pose. I may require a meteor shower.

Holiday activities and tasks, as well as general merriment will soon ramp up here and so far I'm on point. Oh Joy to the World!

Off to test another rum ball...one must be quite sure they're just right.

Here's my rum ball recipe. It began as one from my favorite gal, Fanny Farmer, but I've changed it quite a bit over the years:

RUM BALLS
2 cups vanilla wafers
1/2 cup finely chopped pecans
1/4 cup cocoa
21/2 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons light corn syrup
1/3 cup Malibu rum

Put vanilla wafers into a food processor and process until the cookies become fine crumbs. Put crumbs into a bowl, add pecans, cocoa and one cup powdered sugar. Stir well. Add light corn syrup and Malibu rum. Shape into small balls and roll in remaining powdered sugar. Store in an airtight container. They are best if allowed to sit for 10 to 14 days.

To see a 54-second video of the bird of paradise pose, click on this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPBgfISx0yY

Omen of the Scarlet Ibis

2009-11-30T00:10:00.010-05:00

I'm still thinking about animal encounters and today want to share my tale of the scarlet ibis.

But first a bit of background material: The scarlet ibis, red as a St. Louis cardinal, is native to South America, particularly Trinidad and Tobago.

For a scarlet ibis to be seen on Fort Myers Beach is a rarity. To see him each evening at the same time flying above the back bay with a flock of white ibis, all heading to roost, creates much excitement on our small barrier island.

People stop their day in an attempt to catch sight of him. I myself had tried on several occasions to see him and had dragged my husband to the back bay more than once at 6:15. But we either weren't quite timely or the light was such that you couldn't quite make him out as the flock flew over your head.

And now let my tale begin...

There once was a couple (whom we may as well call Kenny and Laurie) who traversed this great country with all their belongings on enough occasions that their friends and family tended to lose track of where they'd been at certain moments in history.

This couple continued to soothe their restless natures even after their children were born.

It should have come as no surprise then that their first born (whose favorite color happened to be red) would reach an age where he, too, felt compelled to leave home and seek his fortune in another land. (Let's say for the sake of argument and accuracy that this young man chose the land of St. Louis.)

His announcement of his intentions caused his parents (well, mostly his mother) a great deal of angst and worry.

One evening the father in this tale decided to take his boat into the back bay to fish. After he left, the mother in this tale stepped onto her second story deck and called her son. As she listened to him speak of his departure, she wished with all her heart for an omen to be delivered to her. Some sign that all would be well with her son.

At that very moment she looked up and to the right. She had not paid any attention to the time but there they were. The flock of white ibis were making their way towards her and, as she was high above the ground, she saw him for the first time. The scarlet ibis.

And he was as red as a St. Louis cardinal. As red as the St. Louis Cardinal shirts her son most often wore. The scarlet ibis flew past and away from her.

She became teary-eyed in her thankfulness as her son continued to talk.

Later, she heard her husband walk through the front door. She ran out to greet him and tell him what had happened. But before she could say anything, her husband cried out to her, "You'll never guess what I saw!"

He, too, had seen the scarlet ibis fly toward and then away from him, at the same moment as she. At the same moment their son spoke of his departure from them.

And so the hearts of this couple (well, mostly his mother's) were soothed. All would be well their son.

I do understand. The problem with anything perceived to be an omen is that its inherently wrapped in a certain degree of wishful thinking. Yet, some moments come together in such a serendipitous fashion that you're left wondering...could they be anything BUT an omen. Such is life for those paying attention to such things.

Odd Encounters

2009-11-27T09:45:00.002-05:00

Animal encounters, strange or otherwise, aren't a surprise when you're hiking or camping.

But you hardly expect to have such encounters when you're antiquing in Homestead, Florida with Babs Snyderman and Dr. Leslie D____.

There we were last week, wandering leisurely through a slice of old Florida, the historic Cauley Square, when we saw them. Not one. Not two. No, not three. Twelve. Twelve raccoons were playing in a secluded stone pond possessing what was once a waterfall feature. They romped. They frolicked. They appeared to have not a care in the world.

What a sight! What a photo op! Dr. Leslie D____ was the only one of our trio toting a camera. As a matter of fact, she and her camera enjoy one another immensely and she certainly isn't in need of my instruction.

However. I couldn't help but feel that a photo worthy of National Geographic could perhaps be had if she moved closer or slowly edged her way around the left side of the pond and climbed onto the rocks of the defunct waterfall feature. She'd be only feet away from them!

Of course, she'd first have to skirt the really large raccoon loitering on that left side. But, he seemed to be paying hardly any attention to us at all.

Dr. Leslie D_____ appeared to hesitate just as one of the baby raccoons began chasing his tail. I gently nudged her forward as Babs, standing behind me, dryly mentioned, "You know, raccoons can have rabies."

Dr. Leslie D____, as it turns out, can be quite immovable.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm right here. Right behind you."

My rear guard appeared to be little comfort but we did take the slightest step forward when the large loiterer on the left suddenly rushed towards us. Trotting with intent might better describe him but, however one might gauge his speed, suffice to say we took him seriously. We squealed like little girls and scrambled back from the pond. The photo op, so we thought, was lost.

We couldn't help but notice as we made our way to the shop fronting the pond that still more raccoons were peaking out at us.

And cats. At least 20 cats.

As it turns out, thanks to the woman who owns this shop, raccoons and cats live in perfect harmony. She throws food out for all of them while they lounge upon her porch, climb onto her roof and crawl from under the house.

It was endearing yet oddly creepy. It also raised some quite practical questions we thought best left unasked.

But my imagination can't help but run wild. What kind of woman invites that many wild and feral animals into her life and business? She's hugely outnumbered. What if they should rally and rise against her? Is this population proceeding unchecked and are there mutations occurring even as I write? Or, is she herself a shape-shifter with a diabolical plan aimed at wresting Cauley Square from humans. Does this raccoon slash cat lady realize her life is a heartbeat away from becoming the stuff of nightmares?

And what kind of animal encounter would this woman find odd?

She might just be a perfect character for my ghost story...

I've had several unexpected animal encounters in my time. One of the oddest occurred when my kids were still small. My husband had brought home a three foot black snake who took to living in an aquarium in our kitchen. One morning my little Kenny woke me up from a deep sleep as he climbed into bed with me. I told him I had been dreaming that our snake's eyes had clouded over, which led to a discussion of a snake shedding his skin. We got up and went downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast.

Our snakes eyes were clouded over. He shed his skin ten days later.

What on earth do you make of that?!

The picture above was taken by Dr. Leslie D___.

Harder Than It Looks

2009-11-25T09:26:00.010-05:00

Although I was enamored of them for a time, cooking shows have lost their luster in my world.

I stopped watching Rachael Ray's 30-Minute Meals upon realizing I was spending 30-minutes learning to make a 30-minute meal. It seemed poor time management.

It's not that cooking shows aren't helpful. After all, I was only able to truly master the art of the omelet by watching Alton Brown's Good Eats. Who would have thought there are at least 7 steps to making the perfect omelet? Foregoing at least half of them does indeed make a difference.

But in the end, the camera shots on Good Eats tweaked me ever so slightly. I bid farewell to Mr. Brown.

Giada DeLaurentiis' show, on the other hand, is surely the most sensuously filmed cooking show of all time. Yet, I found that, in the end, all Giada inspired me to do was watch Giada cook. Time management ceased to exist. It was with poignant regret that I bid farewell to her.

I would give much to spend time with Paula Dean in her outdoor kitchen, but the first time I saw her show I thought it was a spoof on cooking shows. The way Paula Dean pronounces pecan pie was a source of wonder for this mid-west girl. For the next 30-minutes I simply could not make myself stop trying to capture her drawl and inflection. And there I was yet again - guilty of poor time management. I bid farewell to Paula Dean.

But I've tremendous respect for these people. Have you ever tried to keep a smile on your face for 30-minutes while running a solo conversation and cooking? It's much harder than it looks. I know this to be true because I tried it yesterday while making my Thanksgiving cupcakes and my cranberry sauce.

Here I am a speaker, a consummate multi-tasker, and no stranger to the kitchen. Between all that and the innate uppish-ness I usually work hard at keeping in check, I've often thought perhaps I should host my own cooking show.

But all I can say now is thank goodness I was cooking something that didn't require the use of a knife. Otherwise, I'd be hunting and pecking at my keyboard today with less than the usual number of digits.

As it was I dripped chocolate down my shirt, knocked one bowl off the counter, added salt twice, and forgot my train of thought more than once. And never was I the least bit witty. As a matter of fact sometimes I just couldn't think of a thing to say beyond the obvious, "Fill the cupcake wrappers 3/4 full" or "Stir occasionally til the berries pop".

Alas, I realized hosting my own cooking show was a mere pipe dream. And as I really do not have the many spare moments this post implies, I stopped with the foolishness, turned on some Lucinda Williams tunes and began my coleslaw. It's the one with the secret ingredient - which I may have gleamed from an episode of Rachael Ray.

Anyway...Gobble On!

The picture you see above is one of my Thanksgiving tables for this season. Ever fond of the eclectic, Thanksgiving usually finds us eating from antique china platters - all of which are different. They don't lead to gluttony but they are bigger than dinner plates and perfect for those among us happiest when their menu items are not touching one another.

And, here's a tip for those who, like me, cannot count flower arranging among their skills. Anyone can arrange a few flowers in antique salt and pepper shakers.

Ghostly and Gothic

2009-11-23T00:05:00.005-05:00

What should I do next now that I'm a genuine devotee of my character, Octavia Ashford (as well as her ghosts)?

I'll likely read ever more ghost stories, especially as the ghost story season draws near.

Ghost stories at Christmas time? Odd to us now, reading ghost stories at Christmas is as Victorian as Queen Victoria herself.

My awareness of this historical tidbit coincided with our migration to Florida and ever since - for nine years now - I do pull out my ever growing collection of ghost stories once December rolls in. I've discovered the words of Mamillius in The Winter's Tales to be true: A sad tale's best for winter. I have one of spirits and goblins.

I'm leaping ahead this year as I'm already on page 109 of J.S. LeFanu's Uncle Silas, a book famous for "creating an atmosphere of unrelieved terror and suspense." Technically it's more Gothic than ghost, but the two are close relatives and exchanging one for the other during the season does not portend some dire calamity.

Uncle Silas is quite good. It's diabolical. It's gripping. One deeply feels poor Maud's fear and suspicion of her fiendish governess, Madame de la Rougierre.

Yet, at the same time one wonders why poor Maud hasn't the presence of mind to more quickly put a stop to this woman who wields such an unpleasant hold upon her nerves. A young woman with bravado, such as my Torie Montana, would easily have made short work of a fiendish governess.

But I suppose a ghost or gothic story without a frightened woman seeing lurid treachery at every turn is one without legs, isn't it?

Back to what I'm going to do next. I've a ghost story of my own beginning to form in my mind's eye. I'll take care that I don't allow it to over excite me through the holiday season. Yet, when I'm alone, I cannot help but wonder down what dark and thrilling path it will lead.

I cannot share more for I must part from you now with unnatural speed. But do not fear. A undefinable sense of danger has not smote me. A malevolent dread is not mingling with the blood coursing through my veins. Nor is panic gathering round me.

I simply must visit Netflix. The English filmed Uncle Silas as The Inheritor. I've got to order it on the chance it could be here by Thanksgiving.

Hello Octavia!

2009-11-20T00:05:00.009-05:00

Well my friends, the time has come for Lady Octavia Ashford to at last go live. I'll be doing Octavia Ashford and Her Ghosts, for the first time in its entirety, at the Walk Through the Arts Festival in Fort Myers tomorrow.

It's taken an inordinate amount of time for me to become comfortable with this but I finally feel Octavia.

I've raised the bar here. All of my programs before now have required only an animated version of myself. With this, however, I throw myself into acting and storytelling.

I wanted to tell a ghost story but I also wanted to provide background on the ghost story genre as it stood in the Victorian era. Hence Octavia. As an engaging hostess who sometimes has trouble staying focused on the task at hand, she provides the frame surrounding the story.

If you click on the link below, you can hear the beginning prior to Octavia actually telling the ghost story. It's just short of six minutes long.

But first, read the words below as it's what you'd hear if you were with me in real time:

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. I invite you to step back in time with me to a December afternoon in 1898. To the parlor of Lady Octavia Ashford - just as the sun is bidding farewell to the afternoon...ok now, click here! Enjoy!

In case you'd like to check out all that goes on at our Alliance for the Arts where the festival is held: http://www.artinlee.org

Working In Threes

2009-11-18T02:22:00.005-05:00

Odd numbers are pleasing to the eye. I happen to be especially fond of three's.

I had wanted three children but it's likely time to stop wishing for a third. At this point in life's game a third child would require an extraordinary explanation. No Cobwebs Here would also come to a screeching halt.

I had wanted three pets. I had two and am now down to one. I'm good there I think, especially as one is an odd number. Although the question begs to be asked - would two Shih Tzu puppies forever put to rest that longing for a third child?

Other than the above, I work in three's pretty faithfully. I always buy three:
- of any plant calling my name
- matching panties per bra
- bottles of wine (Please note I'm never compelled to drink three bottles of wine)

I must also have three desserts on my holiday table.

Pumpkin pie with real whipped cream is a given.

Something chocolate is also an absolute must. For the last two years chocolate cupcakes have put in an appearance. Not just any old chocolate cupcakes, mind you. We kindly remove ours from their wrappers, cut them in half across their girth and before they know what hit them, we smear the bottom half with a thick layer of chocolate mocha mousse. The top half is carefully put back in place and the dark little beauties are then quite generously drizzled with a dark chocolate glaze. How I wish I could tell you I thought of these! But they're the brain child of Elinor Klivans and can be found in her book Cupcakes!.

The third dessert is always the wild card. I was leaning strongly towards creme brulee this year but have opted instead for a white chocolate bread pudding. It's a recipe I created for Steeped: The Wanderings and Delights of a Tea Adventurer and I like it because, not only is it wildly yummy, it freezes well and you can slice it and pick it up with your fingers to eat. Quite novel for bread pudding, don't you know.

In case you, too, need a third dessert for your holiday table, here's the recipe:

White Chocolate Bread Pudding
8 ounces white baking chocolate
2 cups half and half
1 cup sugar
6 eggs
11/2 cups evaporated milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
8 large croissants

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Break up the white chocolate and put into the top of a double broiler with half and half. Warm on medium low heat, stirring occasionally until the white chocolate is melted.

Add the sugar and continue stirring for 1-2 minutes. Remove from heat.

Break the eggs into a large bowl and whisk until the yolks and whites are well blended. Add the evaporated milk and vanilla. Slowly pour the half and half mixture into the evaporated milk and eggs, stirring constantly.

Grease an 8.5" x 13" baking dish. Break the croissants into 1-inch chunks and place in the dish. Pour the cream mixture over the croissants. Use the back of a spoon to press the croissants into the liquid. Let sit for half an hour.

Press the croissants into the liquid one more time before placing the baking dish into a larger pan. Place all into the oven and then carefully pour boiling water into the larger pan. Bake for 40-45 minutes. Once cool, cut into small pieces.

They say you must have three of something before you can call your two of something a collection. My search for a third elephant continues.

Culinary Daring

2009-11-16T06:21:00.000-05:00

One measure of your culinary confidence is your willingness to attempt the unusual while knowing your table is decorated with holiday guests. Holiday guests tend to have higher expectations than your average dinner guests but that doesn't always lend them the sense of adventure you might expect.

If you choose to announce, for instance, that "We're having an arugula and beet salad with a homemade chunky bleu cheese dressing" or "I thought we'd start with baby onions and brussel sprouts in a horseradish cream sauce," you've got to expect a few blank stares. The silent graciousness of your guests doesn't belie the fact they're now wishing they'd accepted their "other" invitation.

Before you think me brimming with foolish bravado, let me share with you the key to this sort of daring.

You mustn't lead with your exotic menu offerings. I've been collecting extensive data on this for years so you can trust me when I tell you: You can serve whatever culinary delight strikes your fancy as long as you lead with a must have stand by - green bean casserole.

I don't know how this came to be, but green bean casserole is now as enmeshed in holiday tradition as pumpkin pie and Christmas cookies. A scoop of the stuff on their plates gives your guests the pleasant sensation that tradition is not lost. Nor has the world gone topsy turvy with madness and zealous foodies.

It gives them the courage to consider beets and brussel sprouts - even if it's just the smallest spoonful of consideration.

There are limits of course. I doubt even green bean casserole could overcome your guests' trepidation should they discover rare, still undulating rattle snake on your holiday table.

Yet, what if it were braised just beyond undulation and served with a chipolte mayonnaise and topped with a dollop of sweet chili sauce?

Wait, come back! I was only thinking out loud!

That 's What Happens When You Break Tradition

2009-11-13T08:48:00.003-05:00

The newest issue of my Sweet Willa's Review, with its feature on feather trees, adds a new layer to a smallish but on-going problem.

I've got Christmas tree angst.

It's that @?;*;%^($#!>* Charlie's fault - hurricane Charlie. This disastrous August intruder created three months of unprecedented labor. While my holiday treasures had escaped his wrath, my willingness to hoist, haul and arrange etc. was at a historical low as the 2004 holidays approached.

I decided not to put up a tree. Oh please, stop with the gasping! I know it was a monumental decision. You're reading the words of a woman who has collected ornaments ever since she herself was a child.

Yet I found it oddly freeing. My plan was to tuck Christmas presents among my Santas. It would take far more than that @?;*;%^($#!>* Charlie to keep my Santa collection boxed. To be truthful, an ever growing portion of this collection refuses to be put back into boxes each year.

My family, however, would have none of it. My husband, who has rarely hoisted a Christmas ornament in all the years I've known him, seemed to take it especially hard. He brought home a somewhat crumpled, 3' tall tree with a missing branch. It possessed a distinct Charlie Brown quality, but he was sure it'd take only minimal holiday effort to transform into a magical part of our Christmas.

I, of course, scoffed. But the next day's trip to JoAnn Fabrics found me in the Christmas isle - where there was a sale on pink glass balls that struck my fancy. It occurred to me that, especially as the tree was so small, I could perhaps transform it into something magical - especially at a 50% off Christmas sale.

I called it my Florida tree.

Although I'm certain some of my Santas snickered, my Florida tree served me well for a number of years. The ease of simply wrapping it in a sheet and popping it into the attic - ornaments and all - did set me to humming Joy to the World as the next season rolled around.

But last year I found myself bored with it and so sent it on its merry way to Good Will on January 26th. So now I'm treeless. I've broken with tradition but am not yet prepared to go back.

Oh woe is me! What am I to do? That @?;*;%^($#!>* Charlie!

Is a feather tree the answer? It could be...but I think I see three. A feather tree forest if you will. Not even my most uppity of Santas could snicker at that!

To read the current issue of Sweet Willa, paste this link into your browser: www.glily.com/sweetwillasreview.htm

The lovely feather tree image you see is reprinted with permission of Home Traditions - the place to purchase feather trees and their accessories. The image first appeared in Romantic Homes. You are invited to visit www.hometraditions.com

Longing for His Return

2009-11-11T06:52:00.000-05:00

The moment he makes his presence known I stop - quite still. I listen and wait...breathless with anticipation...as if a lost lover has at last whispered my name. I've longed for his return, but is it really him?

Of course it's him. How many bagpipe players do you know?

Actually, I don't even know this one. But, each year at this time, as our low season rolls in, this man bids farewell to whatever chilly northern locale he calls home. He returns to Florida...and to me. He just doesn't know he's returning to me.

And I do wait for him with longing. Granted I might feel differently if he lived right next door, but as he lives one street and three houses away, what drifts towards me is the low and haunting sound of his bagpipes.

He reminds me there are memories larger and older than my own. He stirs a wistfulness inside of me that, for whatever reason, is a part of my Florida existence. He's also a part of my holiday season.

It was on a particularly quiet New Year's Eve that my bagpipe player first serenaded me. The ball had dropped, the fireworks had faded and the new year had chosen to make its entrance shrouded in mist. I was sitting at the table on my back porch, alone and somewhat melancholy, pondering what a new year in Florida might bring. As I recall, I was also resisting the urge to avow anything resembling a New Year's resolution.

And then I heard him. My first thought was how odd to hear such music in subtropic zone 10. But is that not the way of Florida? Was there ever a place so brimming with contradiction?

The mist, the quiet of the evening, and this gentleman's music...all came together in a shifting moment that was mine alone. My melancholy disappeared and I felt I could now welcome the new year I'd been holding at arm's length. I was suddenly so thankful for this man.

I'm sure he'd be happy to know how his playing affects a gal on the next block, but I think I like the romance the slightest bit of distance and mystery creates.

He called to me yesterday for the first time since last season. I was climbing the stairs to my front door and, as he always does, he stopped me dead in my tracks.

Welcome back, my darling. It's time for pumpkin pie.

Backwards with Aplomb

2009-11-09T08:45:00.004-05:00

Occasionally there's a costume glitch. And there was the one time, with the house half full and the program soon to begin, that I forgot my cordless mic was live as I walked to the restroom and began singing Tea For Two as I took care of business.

Other than these rare occurrences, I don't expect much of the unexpected with most of my programs.

But I quickly learned that The Stories My Clothing Can Tell is a different animal. It's always lively and entertaining, but it's also "cloaked", if you will, with an unavoidable degree of volatility.

My models are always different and there's rarely time to seriously work with them. The gowns are unfamiliar to them and the fastenings - which are often many - can be less than obvious.

And, despite my best efforts at instruction, once the show begins there'll inevitably be a model who shoots from the gate early and yet another whom you fear has disappeared via a rear exit rather than step into the room.

As I'm used to all this, I also work with the models during the show if need be and that seems to work well. But even I was nonplussed for a moment this past weekend at Old Florida Days in Naples.

My last model, wearing a 1920's sea green ballgown, had just entered the room. I'm smiling and talking...

"Of course a flapper had to 'park' her corset while dancing. You can't do the Charleston, the Shimmy, or the Black Bottom while wearing 'old ironsides'...

But I'm thinking...

"What on earth is wrong with that dress?!"

Once she was at the front of the room and had spun a graceful pirouette, I could see the problem. Ms. Georgia H____ had put the gown on backwards!

I debated on whether or not the situation even needed handling since the audience had no idea, but it was too priceless a moment to let pass.

I waited until Ms. Georgia H____ had exited and began laughing.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot keep this from you. The lovely Ms. Georgia H___ was wearing that 1920's sea green ballgown...backwards."

The crowd roared. Within moments all my models entered for a final walk down our "runway" and Ms. Georgia H___ had already slipped the ballgown on "forwards". For a moment I thought the crowd might now give her a standing ovation!

I believe the lovely Ms. Georgia H___ stole my show right from under me! You know you're a beauty when you can wear a 1920's sea green ball gown backwards and still pull it off with aplomb.

But it's all copacetic my friends and I'm wondering if I should make that bit of costume glitch a permanent part of The Stories My Clothing Can Tell.

Just Ironing

2009-11-06T00:22:00.003-05:00

My vintage fashion show, The Stories My Clothing Can Tell, is catching on. I'll be doing it this Saturday and Sunday at Old Florida Days in Naples.

This is one of my funnest of programs, especially if my models - always different - have the moxie to ham it up for the audience. But it's also one of my most labor intensive of programs.

I've racked my brain for every magical word I've ever chanced across. Without the least success, I've wearied each and every facial muscle attempting to coax a wiggle from my nose.

These gowns simply refuse to iron themselves.

Luckily, I don't find ironing to be the abhorrent task that some do. You might think me bee-headed, but I love my iron. It's big and heavy and glides along in a fashion that can only be described as graceful. Pressing the steam button makes a warm and fuzzy "Pshhhsssssssss" that I find oddly pleasing. The wrinkles want to vanish.

Good thing since I can never get to the dryer in a timely fashion.

So once I'm on gown #3, ironing becomes something of a meditation. By gown #5 the troubles of the world are held at bay.

The following words came to me yesterday at gown #6:

Safe in knowing this is best
You fold your thoughts
   with perfectly quiet creases,
Tucking them neat and still
In an attic drawer
At the end of the stairs
   I rarely climb.
But me?
Mine spill noisy and wrinkled
   (forever a tussle)
From an open box
Recklessly perched upon a low shelf.
Always in easy reach.
But maybe not so safe.
I've lately been tripping over them.
And there you are to catch me.
   On your way up the stairs.

My mama walked in the door at dress #8.

"Honey, why are you ironing those big dresses on that little ironing board?"

Talk about an "aha" moment.

Our home had come with an ironing board that falls out from the wall - most convenient from a storage perspective. But at only half the size of your run of the mill ironing board, I guess it's hardly practical when ironing an Edwardian wedding gown.

Lofty with meditation, poetry, and my grand ol iron, it just never occurred to me to make a Target run.

I might indeed be slightly bee-headed on occasion. But I like to think those moments are short lived. I was off to Target in a heartbeat.

What would I do without you Mama.

The Stories My Clothing Can Tell was the spring fund raiser for the Friends of the Mound House. If you'd like to see a number of the gowns as well as some of the Fort Myers Beach beauties who wore them so well, you can visit: www.laurienienhaus.com/fashionpage.htm

Southern Sass

2009-11-04T00:02:00.007-05:00

What is with all of these personality quizzes? It seems a monumental waste of time to answer questions leading to the discovery of what farm animal, sub sandwich or Greek god one might be.

But because I like to be kept in the loop of trends, I squandered a few minutes this morning - actually it stretched closer to sixty - browsing different on-line personality quizzes.

I've discovered I'm a whimsical and dreamy sea otter craving harmony but am one whom others don't always "get".

Far be it from me to criticize, especially as this is not my area of expertise, but I'd hesitate to make any assumptions about a person based on their preference for tater tots over waffle fries - hence whimsical.

People find these tests amusing I suppose. My Mount Dora, Florida friend, Margaret Andersen, clearly thought so. She devoted one whole page in each issue of her Maggie Mae Magazine to featuring a woman answering the questions she posed. Calling this page Southern Sass, Margaret left it to her readers to make what they would of the answers.

I was fortunate enough to once be featured in her Southern Sass. If I hadn't wasted time this morning with these silly tests I'd perhaps have something more profound or intriguing for you today than a reprint, update, and commentary on my original answers, but alas...I'm now burning daylight. 

 1. What is your favorite comfort food?  Mashed potatoes (gravy optional)

 2. What is your newest interest? Palm reading (You probably thought I'd say tea leaf reading, didn't you? There's less breakables to haul about with palm reading.) 

 3. What could you not live without? Moisturizer (and more and more of it as time goes by) 

 4. What is something you've wanted to do but never have? Travel the inter-coastal waterway from beginning to end (Surely river otters are kissin cousins to sea otters.) 

 5. What would your message in a bottle be? Live an extraordinary life (I almost went with: Always clean up your own mess)

 6. What keeps you up at night? Possibilities (and blog ideas) 

 7. What are you reading right now? Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin (Hands down, nominee Greg Mortenson would've been MY choice to receive the most recent Nobel Peace Prize. This book is a must read BTW) 

 8. Have you any obsessions? Essential oils (I've a shelf devoted to these little bottles of health, healing, beauty, and serenity. I've also just discovered helichrysum oil - amazing stuff)

 9. What is your favorite way to decompress? Get a massage (the deeper the better) 

10. What would you like your tombstone to say? She'll be hard to forget (Some statuary nearby would be lovely as well.) 

11. What is one thing you'd never do again? Howl at a full-moon tequila party (But I'm glad I did it once.) 

12. If you were a flower, which would you be? The one still blooming in the vase (a pansy would've been my non-smartypants answer) 

13. What is your favorite meal? Lobster with a creme brulee back (Of course there are mashed potatoes on the side!) 

SHIFT

2009-11-02T01:09:00.003-05:00

Some mornings I woke up with the strongest yearning for rose colored glasses. Rather than muggle over the whys and wherefores of such desire, one day I just bought a pair.

They work magic on an already glorious sunrise, but slipping them on does not set me assail on the good ship lollipop.

I've long held a first class ticket on that vessel anyway and, generally speaking, there's no need for it to even leave the dock.

But my rose colored glasses do create an inner shift. I swear to you it's true. Some of my best ideas climb aboard when wearing them. I'm more easily able to hoist the anchor on stubborn problems. Words sail from my pen.

I think you get the picture.

Oh My Goodness! Did you hear that? I think it is a crackerjack band!

Here's a poem that popped into my head yesterday afternoon when wearing my rose colored glasses. If packaged in a box it'd come with a warning: The words contained within have not been tested and the author makes no claims to being a poetess regardless of her eye wear. Read at your own risk.

Two hearts heavy and tattered
Each quiet with wear
Each savvy still knowing
That love's waiting there

Above you see a section of the bulletin board next to my desk. Donning my SHIFT necklace works along the same lines as my rose colored glasses. I've never tried wearing them both together though. Hmmm...now there's a thought.

The wildly handsome young man is my son, Kenny. He's holding the real Ella Bell of Nana's Socks - back when she was a wee babe.

I'm In a Cherry Jam

2009-10-30T07:34:00.003-04:00

Keeping in mind I'm a research hound, you surely know I had to Google "how to name a blog" before getting started back in June. Good thing I did too because I gleamed a most important tidbit of information.

You should name your blog something that shows you don't take yourself so seriously.

As I naturally lean towards irreverent and was wanting to write only slice of life prose anyway, this made perfect sense. Heeding such sage advice also gives you a little more elbow room. Your readers naturally tend to more forgiving of all flowing from your pen and keyboard.

That said, accuracy is still paramount - as it should be. And I confess to a faux pas. My good friend, Dr. Leslie D., has pointed out to me that Success Is Mine (9/11) contained a grave error.

As it turns out, Maraschino cherries contain not a trace of formaldehyde! I've heard for so long they did I took it as fact...and so neglected to fact check. If I had thought more carefully about the phrase "fact check", perhaps I wouldn't be in this cherry jam.

Anyway, I stand corrected and am pleased to be a vehicle for the demolition of an urban myth.

But you know what this meant, don't you? I had to make that cake again! The revised recipe is below and I must say, the Maraschino cherry plays no small part.

So I thank Dr. Leslie D., but she's lucky I got the revised recipe right on the first try. She might have started getting cake in the mail.

As long as I'm speaking of corrections, I also wasn't pleased with the second picture in When Fiends Have Fun (9/21). I've posted another in case you wish to take a look.

And, since blogging seems to be a theme this week, I wanted all of you to know about a blog just brought up by a woman I greatly admire and whom I can count upon not only to tell me the truth about my writing but tell me how to fix it when I'm stuck, Ms. Carol Drummond. Enjoy: www.mangoesandchampagne.blogspot.com

If you'd like to read about the misunderstood Maraschino cherry, you can visit: www.whatscookingamerica.net/History/MaraschinoCherry.htm

 Cherry Pound Cake(Revised)

12 ounces Maraschino cherries
1 cup butter
11/2 cup sugar
4 eggs
4 ounces sour cream
1 package Cherry Jello (not sugar free)
3 cups flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda 
1/2 cup Three Olives Cherry Vodka
2 teaspoons almond extract 

Chop cherries and set aside. Cream the butter and then add the sugar. With the mixer on low, add room temperature eggs one at a time. Add sour cream. In a separate bowl mix jello, flour, baking soda and baking powder. Alternately add the flour mixture and the vodka, beginning with the flour mixture. Using a spoon, gently add the almond extract and the chopped cherries. Do not over mix. Bake at 300 degrees in a greased and floured 10" tube pan for 75 minutes.

Glaze
4 tablespoons butter
2 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons Three Olives Cherry Vodka
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice 

Melt butter in a pan and add remaining ingredients. Immediately drizzle over the cooled cake. 

What Darcie Suggests

2009-10-28T07:57:00.003-04:00

Apparently I'll do anything my sister, Darcie, suggests. This likely began when she wanted to ride on the handle bars of my bike as I cruised down a hill too steep for a passenger so precariously balanced. Or, it might have been when she suggested we host an impromptu party since our parents were out.

Neither time went well for her by the way. I crashed the bike and she ended up with stitches in her chin. Our parents crashed our party but my one guest, Tom Boenig, was easily lost in the sea of her guests scaling our back fence in hasty retreat. The lone, remaining friend hiding in the closet didn't help her case either.

But I digress. It was Darcie who suggested I begin a blog.

The funny thing is, I'd been casually researching blogs for about a year and had decided against it. My Sweet Willa's Review at GLily.com, with its devotion to the often oddball bits of tea and history, was serving me well.

There are also more tea blogs than you'd care to count, many requiring a strong cuppa to sustain you through endless descriptions of individual teas and their nuances. It makes you wonder if some teas come with a thesaurus or perhaps a booklet entitled "Metaphors for Teatime".

"What on earth would I write about?"

"Write about your life."

"Why would anyone read that?"

Her answer was something along the lines of, "Write it and they will come."

People have come to No Cobwebs Here. According to StatCounter.com over 1500 of you since June. I've no idea if that's good for a blog and as some of you have become precious regulars, real numbers are hard to figure.

What I do know is that posting three times weekly with the intent of wooing at least a smile from my readers has opened up my writing in unexpected ways.

Yet, I've the sense that No Cobwebs Here is preparing me for something. That could be wishful thinking but it's recently occurred to me that this might only be a 1-year project. I might just make my last post on the anniversary of my first - June 16ths It's Not Household Management.

I will, of course, have to see what Darcie suggests.

But tell me, would you call me a humorist?

It's Darcie you see above.

Saved by Torie Montana

2009-10-26T07:04:00.002-04:00

It'd been years since I'd last fallen into the trap so you can imagine my shock. There I was staring sadly into the mirror, mourning the dark snippets of hair now lying lifeless in the sink. I'd been seized with the notion that my hair demanded immediate attention; that it was a monstrous affront that mustn't see the light of day.

I must take matters into my own hands I thought - especially as Torie Montana, my daughter the hair stylist, was nowhere to be found. I mean, really, where is a 22 year old on a Friday night at 11 p.m. when her mother is having such a crisis?

Knowing that such impulses generally put one on the road to disaster, you'd think I'd have stopped myself. But whether it was a quirk of the light or the lateness of the evening, I seemed to see clearly what must be done. It was only the tiniest bit off the front that needed to go. That's it! Shaping! How hard could that be?

I combed my wet bangs at what surely must be the right angle and with all the confidence of a woman whose daughter is the hair stylist, I picked up Torie's scissors. I did pause to see whether the sky would really fall as she had led me to believe might happen if I touched them.

The firmament was obviously staying put. So far, so good. I held my breath and made a first cut.

Hmmm...not bad - except for the bottom left edge there...let's try one more small snip...

Oops...well, no worries. My bangs could be a little shorter. If I comb them flatter, press down hard with my free hand and turn the scissors just so...

Oh dear...that's not good. I'm starting to look as if I've been through a chipper. Well wait, wispy bangs are downright sexy and I've seen Torie Montana create the look countless times. You just turn the scissors parallel with the hair and take short, fast snips. 

Yikes! Is there some wrist action I'm not aware of? Or, maybe I'm not cutting deeply enough...  

Oh good Lord! What have I done! 

And that's how I ended up staring sadly into the mirror. At this moment I was worried only about my chipper head and had yet to give any thought to how I was going to explain this to Torie Montana. She night not take it well since, generally speaking, my head belongs to her. 

Still in angst, I heard the front door open.

"Mom, are you up?"

For heaven sakes, I hadn't felt this kind of panic since my mom caught me kissing Tom Boenig on the front steps in eighth grade! I did the only thing I could think of.

I nonchalantly walked into the living room.

"Hi, darlin," How's that for casual?

"Why are you wearing a baseball hat and your pajamas?"

"I'm wearing a hat? Silly me. I must have forgotten to take it off...you know, from before..."

She looked at me kind of strangely and then yawned. "Well, I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

"Sure thing, Missy Boo. Sleep tight."

She was all the way to her bedroom door before she turned around.

"I'll fix it in the morning."

"Thank you, Torie Montana. You're an angel."

She went into her room and shut the door. I waited until I was sure she was sleeping before putting her scissors back where they belonged. No sense in being completely busted.  

Above you see my beautiful - and savvy - girl, Torie Montana.

Amen Sista!

2009-10-23T09:32:00.002-04:00

It took awhile for Florida to grow on me. To be honest, I finally had to make a conscious decision to stop despising this sunshine state I now call home. My hating it was not going to turn palm trees into pines. Nor would it make the air less humid or transform the Gulf into the Columbia Gorge.

Everyday at sunset Kenny and I would walk the beach. Everyday he'd say, "We're lucky it's so beautiful on our last day of vacation." He'd then stop in his tracks, hold his hands out and look around in mock wonder. "Oh wait! We live here!"

At first I couldn't even work up a grimace. As a matter of fact, the consistency of his mock wonder rather grated on my nerves for a time. I may have even, regrettably, let slip a waspish retort on a few occasions.

After awhile though I couldn't help but smile. Then I found myself waiting for him to say it each evening.

And finally I said it first. I hadn't planned on it. I was even surprised by it. But I meant it.

The forests of the northwest? I couldn't even begin to tell you how I miss them. But, I do love my sugar sand beach.

And I'm pretty fortunate to have a guy willing to daily walk the edge of silly just to lighten his wife's heart.

And she says to herself...Amen Sista!

Above is the Nienhaus family at dinner in Portland, Oregon.

Falling From Zone 7

2009-10-21T10:55:00.002-04:00

Home. No matter how extraordinary your time away, there's nothing quite like walking in your own door.

It would have been lovely to bask in leisure and a milk bath this morning after having been gone for two weeks but I must hit the decks running.

And fiddle de de, I'll deal with the explosion that is my suitcase tomorrow Scarlet.

But for all of you I'm posting another bit of writing that's to go into the Garden Rambles section of my book, Steeped. It's very appropriate for this moment in time. I even surprised myself by how happy I was to be in Florida as I drove to Fort Myers Beach from Tampa yesterday.

This piece is called Falling From Zone 7 and was originally published in a lovely magazine called Green Prints. Enjoy!

After having lived for over 12 years in Portland, Oregon, I considered myself a northwest zone-7 girl, blissfully living the cottage garden dream amid towering hollyhocks and intoxicating buddleias. I didn't question whether or not my sweet-faced pansies would return each year to the little mound where I first planted them. For so long had I set my seasonal clock by the nodding heads of my columbines in the spring and my mop head hydrangeas in the fall that I never considered all might one day be left behind.

Without warning the unthinkable happened. My husband was offered a partnership in a southwest Florida business. In less time than it takes for my Italian Whites to germinate, my universe tilted and fate transplanted me - without, I might add, the least concern for the unplanted root beer iris pressed into the hands of faithful garden friends as our car pulled away.

I now found myself in subtropical zone 10, a gaudy place of perpetual sun and heat - a land seemingly without the rhythm of the seasons. I knelt to the ground and put my bare hand in the dirt, half expecting it to be the rich black earth I'd left behind. Mere sand slipped through my fingers. I shut my eyes and heard the clatter of palm fronds rather than the swish of evergreens. A tear rolled down my cheek and I thought to myself, I would never garden in such a place.

But the heart of a gardener can only lie still for so long. Try as I might to stop it, I'd find myself idly thinking about mangoes and what sort of fertilizer they must need. I wondered just how tall a pygmy date palm would grow. I told my husband that were I to garden again, a jacaranda would be a rather nice tree to start with.

Then, after several months, I saw it - a shrubby vine trailing up a mailbox. It was completely covered with flowers of rich mauve that blended into the creamiest of waxy centers. I stood awestruck for a moment before boldly deciding to knock on the homeowner's door and politely ask what this beauty was. The woman who answered was happy to tell me all about her cherries jubilee alamanda.

I thanked her for her kindness and as I walked to my car I kept softly repeating "cherries jubilee alamanda". I began to giggle and headed immediately for the closest nursery. It was good to be back.

The other night, many more months later, it was breezy and balmy, like winter nights often are in zone 10. I sat on my back porch with a cup of tea, holding the cup close so the tea's fragrance rose to my face.

But it was not the tea that caught and held my attention. My angel trumpets and my night blooming jasmine were in bloom for the first time and their heady sweet scent so filled the air around me that I could think of nothing but their fragrance. As if on queue, the blossoms of my weeping hibiscus began bobbing in the moonlight like the globes of Chineses lanterns. I smiled, realizing that my subtropical zone 10 garden had given me the first of her gifts.

I shut my eyes and heard the clatter of palm fronds. To my surprise, a tear rolled down my cheek. I thought to myself, what a beautiful place this is.

Above you see my cherries jubilee alamanda, currently in full glory.

Teacup Thumbs

2009-10-19T16:53:00.001-04:00

When you're lost in conversation with a good friend it's easy for you both to forget you're not alone, that...for instance, you're actually surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of people in Houston's Reliant Stadium waiting for U2 to begin playing.

Suzanne and I, both eager to see Bono live, were passing the time talking more about Qigong and the need for me to transform my hitch hiker thumbs into the softer holding teacup thumbs.

As in yoga, form is everything. Another demonstration was in order and we both began to practice holding teacup thumbs in section 152, row J, seats 6 and 7.

And that is when the man next to me leaned over and whispered, "That looks a little witchy."

My reply?

I leaned towards him and whispered back, "We've got flying monkeys and we're not afraid to use them."

I've been dying to throw out that line! I wish I could claim it as my own, but alas, I cannot.

It's good though, isn't it? The man I threw it to paused, looked at me and smiled before whispering back.

"No, I bet you're not."

And then came Bono.

The picture above are the hands of Ms. Suzanne Trotter.

Sherman & Stanley-Fisher

2009-10-16T20:00:00.007-04:00

When my Torie Montana was a teenager, I once became teary eyed when telling her about Sherman's 1864 March to the Sea. She proceeded to call her dad at work.

"Mom's teaching me history and she's crying."

What can I say? Sometimes history moves me.

I verged upon teary again last night when Suzanne and I stayed at the Stanley-Fisher Bed and Breakfast on Matagorda Bay. It was a momentary wave of emotion, mind you. Originally built in 1832, this was one of the first homes in Texas.

What its walls have seen! Aside from various presidents, it's believed Stephen F. Austin and Sam Houston were once guests. It served as a hospital when the Civil War raged and for a time the parlor was the largest room in Matagorda and so was used to lay out the dead.

I can't help but think that the sensitive souls among us can feel the richness of a building whose walls have housed so much of life for so long.

And, of course, since Suzanne is friends with the owners, Rick and Peggy Stanley, we were pretty lively ourselves and so can honestly say we might now be a part of the history of the Stanley-Fisher.

The Stanleys are so gracious and fun you feel like old friends before breakfast is over. It's also a bed and breakfast even a man firmly opposed to the concept of such establishments would feel right at home in. You might want to visit www.stanley-fisher.com if you plan on stopping in on SE Texas.

And about that Sherman crying incident. In all fairness to me I must tell you that only several months prior I had been at the St. Louis Historical Society's library. I had in my hand the original diary of a southern woman writing as Sherman's troops camped on her lawn. Her words and thoughts were still fresh in my mind!

Lastly, as you can see in the above picture, we do have a travel companion - asked along at Suzanne's request. He graciously allowed himself to be photographed shackled in the only remaining jail cell at the LaGrange Chamber of Commerce. He appeared delighted to be included for tea at Oh George's in Angleton. And thankfully he wasn't the least put out when I almost forgot him near the cannon at the Stanley-Fisher. He's kind of growing on me.

Gingerfied Motorcourts & Playing the Coquette

2009-10-14T14:11:00.006-04:00

At the risk of poaching a fish to death, just let me mention that when Suzanne and I walked out of our rooms on Monday we were both wearing the exact same style shirt and skirt. Enough on the simpatico thing but are you all catching on to the Suzanne-isms I've been throwing in lately?

A day of tea-ing is hard on a girl so once we got ourselves settled in at the Austin Hotel we celebrated an action packed and successful day with some of Suzanne's friends and a bottle of champagne.

I'm thinking that some of my Florida and St. Louis family and friends would be all about this stretch of Congress street. From the late 30's til the 60's it was a booming, happening locale lined with "ultramodern motorcourts". Congress was the road to travel between San Antonio and Austin.

But as new highways so often tend to do, the opening of I35 began a downhill slide for Congress and by the 1960's places such as the Austin Hotel were no more than seedy flop houses where prostitutes brought cheap tricks. Suzanne wants you all to know we're not talking about the band either.

Thanks to renovations up into the several million dollar range these hotels, since 2000, have been "gingerfied". And all are within walking distance of the iconic Continental Club, the premier club for live music in this part of the world.

We made a short stop at the courtyard of the San Jose Hotel, the "anti-boutique boutique hotel" on Congress, where I had a Victorian Lemonade. Can you imagine me ordering such a thing? It was the most unusual beverage I've imbibed in quite some time: a lemon-lavender syrup mixed with iced Blanc De Blanc wine. Wild and wonderful yet so gracious and seemingly from another era.

Prostitution seems to be a theme on the periphery of my life as of late. I'm still not ready to divulge too much on that but I will tell you it's possible I'm soon to play the part of a woman in such a profession. No, not in real life!

I was to be from California with this project but I'm enjoying Texas so much, I think I must switch locales. As completely enchanted with Congress street as I am, this girl can't yet bring herself to do seedy, not even historical seedy. I'd much prefer to be one of the few demimondaines of the late 1800's allowed into the private men's club of the elegant Driskill Hotel over on Bravos Street.

You'll enjoy an interesting few moments if you've time to check out these web sites:

www.sanjosehotel.com
www.continentalclub.com

And So It Begins

2009-10-12T00:26:00.004-04:00

Left you see Suzanne Trotter and her husband, Paul, at Suzanne's beach birthday party yesterday. She was to parachute in but the weather turned windy and the jump was canceled. This Florida girl was freezing but these two romped in the waves like a pair of dolphins.

How on earth can two women from completely different parts of the country be such mirror images of one another? It's so uncanny that Suzanne and I often stop dead in our tracks and just laugh.

It's silly stuff mostly - we both own the same car in the same color, have the same paint on our walls, and both have harmonica aspirations. We have many of the same habits, have a stack of hat boxes in a similar corner, cook the same and problem solve the same.

Does it have any real meaning? Of course I'd love to think so, but who knows? It's entertaining at the least.

Suzanne has been studying to become a Qigong instructor so we've been practising Qigong every morning at 7 a.m. I'll be following up on this new interest back home along with the totally unrelated topic of migas.

But they'll be no Qigong this morning. It's late and the Texas Tea-Step is imminent. Our first stop today will be breakfast at the famous Guenther House in San Antonio. Or an early brunch as our ETD seems ambitious considering the lateness of the evening as I write.

Qigong is Chinese for "working with the life energy." I finding it to be an energizing practise. You can see a short video about it at www.qigonginstitute.org

Migas, part of a traditional Tex-Mex breakfast, is a tangle of  scrambled eggs, vegetables, and corn tortillas. I wasn't sure about ordering it because I assumed the tortillas would be soggy. They cook up crispy though and it's a culinary experience worthy of your attention, especially with beans - refried or not - on the side. A slice of avocado on the other side sounds enticing too, don't you think?

Migas for 1-2

2 eggs
1 tablespoon salsa
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 corn tortilla diced into 1/2" pieces
1 tablespoon diced onion
1/2 tablespoon chopped fresh jalapeno
1/2 of a small tomato, chopped and seeded

Mix eggs and salsa and set aside. Heat the olive oil and add tortilla pieces. Once the tortilla pieces are crispy add onion and jalapeno. Pour in the eggs and salsa and scramble til done. Sprinkle the chopped tomato on top and stir once more.

The Guenther House is an 1860's home sitting at the foot of King William, one of the oldest historical districts in Texas. The home was built by the founder of the Pioneer Flour Mills and is now a restaurant and museum. To learn more you can visit www.guentherhouse.com. They also have a Victorian gift shop and Suzanne and I are going to do our best to convince them of their need for copies of And Then It Was Teatime.

I've really got to go to bed!

Fresh and Fly and Dank

2009-10-09T09:51:00.001-04:00

  

Do you think I brought too many shoes to Texas? As I see them lined up here it does seem an excessive amount of footwear for a two week trip and I must tell you - I wasn't barefoot when I took the picture early this a.m.

Anyway, I've been preparing for my first gig, which is today. I was a little worried about this one as I was under the impression I'd be speaking for a middle school class. That demographic is a tough audience and I confess to being slightly scared to death. Would they find me as charming as most of my audiences seem to?

Hmmm...chances are good they might not. It's more likely they might just mock my vintage look and roll their eyes at my humor. Cool is very hard to pull off with pre and early teens, especially when you appear before them in Edwardian inspired attire.

I know cool is out of date. Am I looking to be fat or the bomb? Wait, those are old too. Suzanne's son, Paul, just informed me that fresh, fly, or dank is what I'm aiming for.

But as it turns out, my audience will be third graders in an advanced cultural studies class. Whew! No problem. I'll be fresh and fly.

I'm even expecting hugs. And I do love hugs. They're totally dank.

Impossible List Syndrome

2009-10-07T06:47:00.001-04:00

You know how it is the last 24-32 hours before you leave town. You've a long to-do list and there are items on that list which haven't a thing to-do with your leaving.

These non-travel related items have made their way onto your list because they're the current dangling participles in your life. Anyone with an iota of grammatical sense just feels better about leaving if such items can be checked off before locking the door.

But, inevitably there comes a moment within this 24-32 hour time frame where you realize the impossibility of accomplishing all on this list. The checking off of dangling participles comes to an end. I wonder, do men suffer from this impossible list syndrome or is it only women?

You've got to shift gears. Rather than checking these items off, it's time to highlight them so you remember them upon your return. You could perhaps use a black sharpie but that seems the option for those with no intention of ever returning home.

I'm writing now from a hotel in Tampa and I catch a plane to Corpus Christi at 9:30 this morning.

Yesterday, at the 18th hour prior to my departure from the beach, I realized that finishing my beaded opal bracelet was a pipe dream.

At the 12th hour prior to leaving, it occurred to me that there would be no gluing of feathers to Torie Montana's peacock costume.

At the 4th hour prior to climbing into the car the idea of running to the library to pick up a book on Victorian prostitution was simply laughable. More on that another time.

However, I would have missed the plane rather than walk out my door without cleaning my bathroom. I know it's crazy and I can't explain it. It's just the way it is.

Darn, I forgot to check that off the list.

Here's the Dill, Pickle

2009-10-05T00:48:00.002-04:00

As Suzanne Trotter would say, "Here's the dill, Pickle." I forgot to mention the date in Friday's post (A Texas Adventure, 10/2/09).

1985.

So, I met Ms. Suzanne, an indomitable drink of Texas punch, 24 years ago. At just short of a quarter century, that's a generous amount of time in which a friendship can develop.

But, when two ladies are as simpatico as we, time no longer has a part to play. We've only laid eyes upon one another four times, for a total of perhaps twelve days. Yet, when we're together the universe tilts, seismic shifts of epic proportions rattle the earth, ancient gods stir, unknown galaxies are discovered and snowballs start rolling uphill.

And that's on top of plain old friendship.

And we're about to write another chapter as I'll be heading for Corpus Christi on Wednesday. What began as my going there for Suzanne's birthday on the seventh has turned into the "The Texas Tea-Step". Ms. Suzanne has planned a book/speaking tour for me. Can you believe it? I'm still shocked she chose to take such a thing on!

Wild times are around the corner and who knows how it will all shake out. But one thing is for certain. Something will shake out. As I think Ms. Suzanne might say: "Like salt chasin pepper, darlin!"

The above picture was taken at Polkadots and Moonbeams, a vintage clothing shop in Hollywood, CA. We had met in LA to celebrate our 40ths and camped at Malibu Creek State Park, where M.A.S.H. was filmed. It's an awesome park and when you hiked back to where M.A.S.H. was actually filmed, the skyline still looked as it did when the helicopter flew over at the beginning of each episode.

If you've a few minutes to spare, you might want to visit:
http://www.worldfromtheweb.com/Parks/MalibuCreek/MalibuCreek.html

You can also visit Polkadots and Moonbeams at:
www.polkadotsandmoonbeams.com

A Texas Adventure

2009-10-02T07:17:00.001-04:00

Once upon a time there were two women without coin, but with a hankering to see Texas. They decided that if they drove, ate peanut butter along the way, and camped on Mustang Island they could still have quite the adventure.

However, they forgot their tent. Their plans were further shattered by an unkind and somewhat relentless wind. The hundreds upon hundreds of Portuguese Men of War swimming lazily in the Gulf and which lie dead upon the beach decried Texas hospitality.

After two nights they decided this wasn't quite the adventure they were seeking. Something must be done, but what? Assuming they might think more clearly without the wind continually whipping their hair into their faces, they headed into a Corpus Christi drinking establishment, the name of which has long since been forgotten. 

And that is when I, as one of the women in this story, bumped, literally, into Suzanne Trotter. The woman with perpetual lotion in her motion. 

Fast friends within minutes (our birthdays are only days apart), it was decided that not only would we spend the night with her, we would all arise early the next day and drive to Matamoros, Mexico.

Now, we were too young to have really embraced the 60's yet not so far removed from it that certain adventures were foreign to us. Suffice to say that Blanca White's might still remember us.

And that my friends, is not the rest of the story.

How's that for a cliff hanger? 

BirthdayNess

2009-09-30T08:07:00.000-04:00

I love my birthday. I grew up in a family where the birthday girl reigned. You were awakened with kisses and there were presents, a new outfit, a special dinner of your choosing, and cupcakes for everyone. It's no wonder I'm still certain someone is at least thinking about throwing me a surprise party each year.

Seriously though, October 1st is the start of the holiday season. 

I don't think I've ever had a birthday I dreaded. I thought I was going to dread 30 but I didn't. I confess there was an inkling of angst at 31, but I'd hardly call myself traumatized. 

I actually looked forward to 50. All that occurred in the first half century only left me breathlessly awaiting for the next 50 years to begin. I might loosen my seat belt even more this time! "Oh no!" cries Laurie's mama.

And now, by 52, I've completely mastered the birthday celebration. It wouldn't matter if not a soul remembered my special day because I hear the birthday song playing in my head the moment I get up. I  beam with birthdayness. 

Wanna a cupcake?

Being Moved

2009-09-28T10:06:00.002-04:00

When Kim Hanbor and I saw each other at Art Under the Stars you might have thought we were old friends. But we're not. Our paths haven't crossed since I bought her Charlie Time over three years ago. (Charlie Time Post, 8/17/09). 

Even given the fact I lean towards the imaginative (and some might say dramatic), I'd still swear to you this photographic art called my name, snatched at the scarf trailing down my back, and made every attempt to hold me hostage. There would be no walking away from it.

So Charlie Time is our connection.

And, it's an interesting connection to have with an artist. Something rising from her spirit and born of her creativity connected with my own spirit. It causes us remember one another and to smile when our paths chance to again cross. 

There must somewhere be words written about this sort of thing as it's surely a universal experience. It's subtle, but there's a richness to it I would have hated to miss. 

And perhaps I would have missed it if I were only looking for wall art to match my sofa or my decor. Actually, home dec isn't among my areas of expertise as those who've helped me with my paint struggles will attest to. 

And it happened yet again at Art Under the Stars with Sirena by Sheila Elsea. Whether it was my mood or Sirena's pose, I found myself unable to tear myself away from this painting. She spoke to me and now she's mine. I'll also likely never forget the beauty of Sheila Elsea's smile.

I've long had a list of things I want my Kenny and Torie Montana to know and remember long after I'm gone. To that list I think I must add: At least once in your life buy a piece of art that calls your name. My wish for them is that the artist who created the piece calling to them is standing nearby.

Upon Being Spellbound

2009-09-25T07:48:00.009-04:00

Now...art. With no intention of actually making a purchase, I was wandering through the Festival of Arts in Laguna Beach, California. It was 1994.

When I saw Clint Sloan's paintings I simply stopped walking. Much to the chagrin of the woman behind me who spilled her wine down my back.

I was spellbound. Never had I been so taken with an artist's work. And truly, it was many... well ... minutes later that I noticed Clint Sloan was crazy handsome. His work spoke to me of everything I felt about Laguna Beach, a place our family had long had strong ties too.

Luckily for me he had smaller pieces other than what he was showing at the festival. He invited me to his studio where I found my beach moonscape. I still find myself becoming lost in it - even after all these years.

With the way I led into this you probably anticipated an amorous side road, didn't you? Nothing of the sort there. But there is another part to my Clint Sloan tale. My Torie Montana, then a kindergartner, was with me at his studio. I've always known she liked this piece - after all she's grown up with it.

But just a couple of weeks ago she told me she remembers being at Mr. Sloan's studio with me. She said she'd like to take my beach moonscape with her when she moves out. Not an imminent event I'm hoping.

A young woman remembering her first time in an art studio with her mama? And it was her mama's first time too?

I've got to let her have it, don't I? 

I had my heart set on taking a picture of my piece for you but the glass is too reflective. However, you can see Clint Sloan's work by going to www.clintsloan.com. Be prepared for magic! He has become famous for his beach moonscapes.

To learn more about Laguna Beach's Festival of Arts and the magnificent Pageant of the Masters, paste this link into your browser: www.foapom.com

I know I mentioned in my last post, September 23rd's GARBLE, that today I'd tell you about my latest art purchase. But, what I've discovered about this blogging business is that sometimes, once you begin writing, the words take off on their own without the least regard for my original intention. But stay tuned...

Garble

2009-09-23T11:35:00.008-04:00

I was going to write about art today. How lovely it would have been to wax on about discovering another woman's creativity? About how a woman's hands had birthed an image that so touched my soul I couldn't take another breath unless it was in my hands as I headed homeward? About how I might even be prepared to slightly distort the actual cost of the piece so as not to disturb my husband.

But that must wait for another day.

My computer is dying a not so slow death. Upon turning it on yesterday, the screen was - to use a term I learned only later in the afternoon - garbled.

Garble is defined as "scrambled, lacking orderly continuity, and difficult to understand". This seems to imply one need only pay closer attention or listen more carefully - perhaps ask for clarification or a slowing of speech.

The definition certainly doesn't address the extreme angst garble "births". It doesn't touch your heart or leave you breathless. Rather, you find yourself clutching at your heart and holding your breath. There's a lot of gasping as well.

In short, despite it's bright, flashing colors, garble is nothing like art.

So, I'm ordering a new PC directly from HP.

I had wanted a Mac. Not so much because two friends have shared with me their wonder at the change their Macs have wrought in their lives. But, I'm sad to tell you, mostly because of those TV commercials with the two PC versus MAC guys.

That MAC fellow is just so cool! And, I really liked him in that movie with Bruce Willis - Live Free or Die Hard.

In case you all haven't noticed, NERD is so in. If you doubt it, try watching my favorite TV show, The Big Bang Theory. I LOL every time I watch it.

My computer time at the library is up. Gotta go.