big daddy's gourds

The G-Man can sure carve when he wants to!

The Mag Haunt is slated for Sunday! Scary pizza, cemetery cake & ghoul-hand punch with eyeballs...yummy! I'm so excited, I think I'll jump the gun and levitate!

ghouls gone by...

Ahh, it is that splendid time of year again...Autumn, and all the fun that comes along with it! We Mags really dig on the best part- the cool, the crackly and the toothless. No, that wouldn't be my West Virginia ancestors, folks, but Halloween and jack o' lanterns! Whee! My girls are stoked for another haunt and are lined up to be a bride and an "elegant" witch this year (as in cute, A-line, bronzy dress and matching pointy hat, not the Christine O'Donnell kind).

Yep, after a très fun visit hanging out with the zombies at Halloween Express yesterday, we are a rubber recluse, a mouse and one eyeball richer. The table will have a few new goodies upon it this holiday. We had a ball hamming it up for pictures and whatnot. I'm surprised they didn't kick us out, telling us to buy it or beat it! T-Mag is a little slow on the eerie draw though...still a wee bit reticent of all things amputated and howling. She'll come around. She has to. I have big dreams of turning our humble annual gathering into one of those Roseanne shindigs like they used to do on her show every year! Mama needs to get a part-time job and hire some set dressers to slash the gourds and gorp me up a graveyard out in my double lot. That space is just going to waste anyway. That reminds me...the girls and I watched the cutest show on HGTV a few days ago- Halloween Block Party. Four designers each take a house in the neighborhood and go all out. Simply fiendish!

Daddy Mag's spider web and punkin' fireplace lights are at the ready. We're bloody dying to carve but are holding off to avoid smelly, moldy heads. Speaking of which, I have put my outfit together- a "Freudian slip", complete with cigar and psychoanalytic stare. Sigmund would be proud. Though I should have just saved the dough and gone as a vampire. What with my hormones being as mondo as they are, my widow's peak has become frighteningly bushy these last few months. Good times. I am having to "gel" it everyday! My poor body. Who knows what part will be next to expand or deflate? I think I read somewhere that the hairy pointage is a sign of spiritual enlightenment. I guess that would make me the Eddie Munster of Mother Teresa's. The trait of a villain..it is also believed. That's more likely the case with this Mag. No wonder my hub gets a scared look on his face when I'm brushing my teeth. Speaking of the rattling ball and chain, we have our late-night-after-the-kids-are-down, Hallow's Eve flick perched on top of the entertainment center. We scored The Others for a measly five clams the other day! Great movie by the way, for any of you out there interested in that kind of thing. Nicely put together, with a twist. And it was before Kidman started shooting all that junk into her face and was able to show some semblance of emotion on her mug. Ugh. Why do actors do that? Oh, well, that's another entry.

Rotting digits are crossed for no rain and a full moon. Last year's weather sure was a keeper. We are set to check out a patch this week..and a corn maze. They do labyrinths up right around these here parts, so that will be something fun to look forward to on Papa's day off. I sure wish I had an extra 139 bucks to spend on the creepy, mechanized rocking witch I saw yesterday for our front porch. Bummer. The peeps two blocks over from us, who really go over the top every October, splurged on a big, seven feet tall Hell Raiser Pin-Head, so that will serve as a freebie for us and a cauldron of fun for all the local goblins, I'm sure.

I am glad to say that no child will be harmed in the making of the costumes this year as I went the store-bought route for my two over at Walmart. I figured my hand-made mummy and crappy ghost sheet from last Halloween was enough abuse on my little ones. Being a complete loser in the Beaver Cleaver sewing dept., I made the mistake of washing Will's mummy wrap after our diabolical shenanigans last year and all the scraps came off. Literally- the small pink Henley and sweat pants were completely washed clean afterwards. I was broken hearted as I wanted to save it for their memory box. Being gravely Hobby Lobby-challenged, little did I know that particular garment glue was not water-proof, so all the little bits ended up in the bottom of the washer. Right along with my tears and self-loathing. Oh, well, I try, and that is all a mama-of-frankenstein can do, I guess.

All this monstrous thinking gave me a wicked flashback the other day, so I decided to put together a little retrospective of my munchkins and their spooky past. It seems just yesterday that I held my spidered bald wonder in her baby sling web. Pretty soon, there won't be any more sticky, little hands and snaggletooth smiles. It will be replaced with jaunts off to the Mall with friends and "Gee, Mom, get real. That's for babies!" Until then, I will treasure every magical moment..every memory. It is within each giggle and tiny step down that sidewalk, my heart and deepest dreams reside.

Of course, since the need is completely different for each individual, we have many forms of mountaineering. It may take the form of a need to live heroically, or to rebel against restraint and limitation: an escape from the restricting circle of daily life, a protest against being submerged in universal drabness, an affirmation of the freedom of the spirit in dangerous and splendid adventure. Or it may well be the pleasure of physical fitness and moral energy, elegance of style and calculated daring; ordeals gaily faced with friends themselves as firm as rock, the hard life of the high huts, the happy relaxation on remote pastures as one smokes a pipe or sings mountain songs. It may be the search for an intense aesthetic experience, for exquisite sensations, or for man’s never satisfied desire for unknown country to explore, new paths to make. Best of all, it should be all these things together.

~ Giusto Gervasutti, alpinist

big red's luxury tours

I've decided what I want to be when I grow up- a professional traveler. Methinks I'll try and slip Samantha Brown a mickey and take to the sky, circling the globe in first class style.

After having had a lovely trip back home to L.A. in June, followed by visits to both Chicago and the très charming Wisconsin hometown of my husband; I have just returned from a relaxing respite to the Florida Keys. Yes, I have channeled my inner Jolie these last few months, let me tell ya. I haven't had this much jet-setting action in a long time and am pretty sure I'll be sitting in the double-wide now for quite a spell to make up for it. This last jaunt to Margaritaville was a jolly good one. And I couldn't have had a better tour guide- my dear friend of twenty years, Greg. I haven't been pampered like that since I don't know when! He was the lucky winner in his company's sales contest and had won a trip for two to a fab resort and picked this lucky dog to share it with him. As I have said many times before...do I have the best buds or what?

So here we were..a week ago today, on our way to a luxurious weekend on a private island resort, complete with our very own tender to the mainland, 1200 square foot cottage and the cutest little hand soaps. I ought to know as I took a slew of them home in my luggage! And much to my Greg's horror, forced him to make off with the remaining Tazo teas and in-room Starbucks in his duffel for me, when I ran out of room in mine. Hey, you can take the girl out of Arkansas but not the Arkie out of the girl, folks.

My journey began in Ft. Liquordale (or that's what it was when I got through with it)- the lovely hometown of my friend. The digs were top-notch from the beginning. His parents offered up their darling condo on the waterway to us since they were out of town. I had my morning coffee looking out over fancy-dancy boats galore and really rich people having breakfast on their penthouse balconies. A fab introduction to how the other half lives. We noshed on an absolutely perfect meal that evening, at a place I mistakenly kept referring to as Studio 54 even though Greg constantly reminded me it was actually Seasons 52. All I know is...my snapper with the melt in your mouth orzo was divine. So was my dessert and the extra one Greg was forced to order because I spooned all his down my goozle, too. The evening's classy dinner was preceded by a bucket martini at the Country Club, dah-lings! Our lovely friend, Terry, joined us for the night's festivities. It was so nice to see her again. The next hazy morning, we all had a yummy breakfast at Bill's Filling Station, a local gay diner. I scarfed up some of the best biscuits and gravy I ever ate. Who knew my boys could whip up all that good country cookin'?

Our leisurely drive south started with a quick pit stop into the palm-swaying, Art Deco Miami. I would say 'sunny' but that wasn't happening yet. Up until the moment Mama's feet hit the tarmac, we had torrential rain and gale force winds. Well, I suppose it wasn't that bad, but Florida sure didn't have at me at hello. Greg, the consummate host, was beside himself while touring me under a dark and thundering sky. With the wipers on max speed though, I was able to make out a landmark or two if I squinted really hard.

As we inched our way southward, we passed marshlands, the lingering effects of Andrew (eighteen years later!) and the Monkey Jungle- one of Greggor's childhood haunts. Never saw a gator though. Bummer. We did have to do an emergency stop at a Circle K somewhere around Key Largo after I had pulled down the sun visor to check my lipstick and was mortified to find an oompah-loompah looking back at me. After a couple of stiffies that first night, my pal had talked me into using his self-tanner on my face. Good times. Thank God, I had a loofah in my toiletry bag. I was scrubbed raw by the time we gassed up and pulled out of there.

Eventually..and I do mean, eventually (due to a measly two lane highway & following behind a Budweiser truck that must have been driven by an 80 year old lady) we finally found ourselves on the 17 Mile Highway, cruising across beautiful blue-green water and so many different 'keys', I lost count. Well, truth be known, I was Facebooking, and missed some of the drive. At one point, I asked Greg which new profile pic he preferred of me and a couple questions about cropping and can you believe he told me that he was busy driving??? Whatever. We decided if he did lose control of the wheel though, that I was so good, I'd be able to post a Newsfeed status of "Oh, shit!" as we soared off the bridge to our death.

Two bottles of Dasani and a Dove bar later, we pulled into the town of Key West- home to the legendary writer, Ernest Hemingway (more on that amazing experience later), j'adorable colonial cottages and from the looks of it, lots of full body tats and mullets. Oh, yeah...too bad my red-headed tour guide didn't have a big doobie or any Buffet on his Sirius because from the looks of it, my experience would have then been complete. We wound our way through a cute maze of Bed and Breakfasts until our final stop, The Westin. The moment that hunky Serb valet opened my car door, my ass was primed for the kissing and my Travel Channel spectacular began. Surrounded by exquisite orchids and a royalty's greeting upon check-in, I felt truly glam and geared up for a fantastic trip.

We made our way to the resort's private launch, the "'Lil Princess". How appropriate, since I was with my Queen. We hopped aboard, snuck our way around a humongous Carnival cruise ship and zoomed off to the island I called my home for a glorious 48 hours and twenty minutes. But who's counting? Our cottage was presh with a capitol P. A nautical motif, decked out with beyond plush towels, high thread-count sheeting and a shower so big that I could have shared it with the Laker team. There was a nice wrap-around porch, peppered with Adirondacks..even a comfy hammock tied between a couple of palms. A perfect set-up for ocean ogling. The sun had finally come out to our gi-normous relief as we had driven toward an ominous black cloud every mile of the way down there. Greg was right, Florida's weather can change on a dime; and lucky for us and our livers, it was on our side.

The company fete followed that evening and was a lot of fun. We had cocktails by the pool and din-din in the hotel restaurant, Lattitudes, which was very nice. Earlier, over an Orange Stoli, I had coined a catchy little ditty for the place, "A New Lattitude"- sung to the tune of I Got a New Attitude by the Pointer Sisters. Everyone seemed to have liked it as Greg thought me his grinder monkey that evening at dinner and had asked me to perform it for a few of his co-workers. They were all very nice peeps and from what I was told the next morning- quite tolerant. I happened to be sitting across the table from a VIP who had graciously engaged me in conversation and asked how I had come to the Keys. Instead of simply & succinctly telling him I'd flown in via Lauderdale; I, nursing my umpteenth glass of pinot, proceeded to give him my life story instead. From start to blathering finish. I know you all may find this hard to believe but Mama tends to ramble a bit when she is drinking. Over coffee the next day, Greg told me the only part I left out of my saga was when my great grandmother came over from Poland to Ellis Island and was denied entry because of a bad tooth. :) Needless to say, I was quite embarrassed and was determined to make a joke of it all if I was lucky enough to run into his boss again. Well, I did. Right when I was hopping off the tender the next day. I looked at him and said, "1973..." He raised his hand as if to say, 'No more..please, woman", but gave me a smile and a hug instead. I hope Greg wasn't demoted to janitor when he got back to work on Monday.

The next day, I got up at a ridiculous 5:45am (I'm on mom time, what can I say?) and decided I'd amble my way around the property and take some pics while Greg was sleeping off his Ambien. It was soul-nourishing to see that beautiful sun rise up over that turquoise water. When I got back to the room though, there was my tiffed mon amie..sitting at the dining room table, looking as if he had a mouth full of pins. Our time at this four-star resort included a hand-delivered breakfast basket each morning of our stay. We had been fantasizing about the darn thing for two whole months...freshly squeezed, pulpy orange juice, plump blueberry-filled muffins, scones, croissants with creamery butter...jarred gourmet preserves, wrapped in pretty toile paper and ribbon. He made a motion for me to do the honors of opening this huge basket that he had brought in from the porch. However, by the look on his mug, it appeared he'd already done so. I lifted its lid, heart racing at all the num-nums that my island Muffin Man had brought for our hungry, hungover tummies. Much to this 'Lil Princess' dismay, there was only a brown banana, a Lilliputian apple and what ended up being a tiny piece of Entenmmans, basically. We fought over that thing like a couple of piranhas and then promptly got dressed, pulled out the MasterCard and went to the restaurant for a very delish and overpriced breakfast.

That afternoon, we had penciled in some sort of island activity while we were down there. Well, the Gregster, being the host we know and love...anticipated my every desire, knowing from experience that this girl has a big ole affinity for warm ocean water & lots of pretty little fishies..so he sprung for a bonafide three-hour snorkeling adventure! We should have known better when the choice was between either Fury or Danger Tours of what was to come, but no. Perhaps, if we had paid just a wee bit more attention to the name of said tour- "Reef and 'ritas"...we may have realized the inherent risk involved. Or maybe, just maybe, if we had tuned into the local weather report but, nah, we couldn't be bothered with all that nonsense. Anything that has to do with "..a three hour tour" is just not going to bode well. But onward we went- my Gilligan to Greg's Mrs. Howell. We handed over our tickets and jumped aboard.

An hour out to sea we sailed. Reggae rang from of the speakers and gear was passed out to us, one by one. The ride was choppy to say the least. They finally put her into idle, lowered the sail, and there before us lay an aqua paradise. Except there was one little part of paradise I wasn't so familiar with. The eight-foot swell part. Oh, yeah. That water was rocking and rolling, folks. Dorked out in flippers and mask, we jumped off the side and into a swirling, salty cauldron of sea. It only took a couple of minutes for about a gallon of water to flow down my pie-hole. Choking and spitting, I looked up to find my buddy, ole pal had been swept away about twenty yards ahead. His focus was on the very expensive underwater camera he'd borrowed, so he had no time to protect and hold onto Mama. He knew full well, that if he dropped that blasted thing, we'd have to call in the frigging Coast Guard to retrieve it. Oh, it was a war zone out there. For an hour we bobbed, trying our damnedest to keep our face in the water and our snorkels above it. Oy. Even the fish were looking up at us like "Dude, are ya crazy? Go back to land, for God's sake!" We never did get any good pics and really didn't see much until right at the last minute, long after the camera had mysteriously stopped working- the most absolutely, positively, eye-popping school of purple fish. About twenty or so swam up underneath us to feed on the coral. All stress faded away as we held hands, staring in awe at the magnificent splendor of this beautiful little marine creature. We surfaced, looked at each other and Greg said, "We just got our 100 bucks worth, girl."

Exhausted, we made our way back to the boat and that's when it really got scary. The waves were pummeling the stairs/ladder that had been lowered down and we were being thrashed around like rag dolls. Greg had made it on ahead of me and was holding onto to the bottom rung for dear life. I brought up the rear, snotting out seawater by the buckets, frantically holding onto my mask and trying not to laugh at him when he got slammed by some big biker chick when she was trying to make her way up the slippery stairs. All of a sudden- pow. From the force of the waves behind me, I got nailed in the face by a cable that was holding the stairs in place. It whacked me pretty hard and I was stunned for a second. I tried to find the good in it though, and figured it just raked off another layer of that dreadful self-tanner.

Next thing I know, while I was busy trying not to black out and drown, Greg had a lightbulb moment of taking his fins off and finally managed to hoist himself up onto the stairs. And, boy, did that guy hot-foot it up..leaving Mama Mags to flail ever so dramatically behind. I screamed out but to no avail. He had done gone and dropped that chivalry ball...big time. All of a sudden, just when I thought I was done for, I saw a hand reach out for my vest (the same vest I chose not to blow up because I was such an 'efficient swimmer') and I was then pulled safely onto the first step by one of the tour employees. I lived to tell but not before scraping all the skin off my shins. You'd think after surviving the perfect storm, things would have settled down on the way back but no...not on Fury Tours, gosh darnit! The games were just beginning as we raised the canvas and whirred up the margarita blender. As we toweled off, trying to catch our breath, I couldn't help but notice some of the green faces around me. Before I could say, 'thar she blows' puke was everywhere. Good Lord, the last time I saw that many sick people was at a frat party I attended back in '83. I mean, they were hanging over the side, lying in the aisles, running down to the head..everywhere. This one lady up on the deck just in front of us, was kicking back, having a cold brew, talking to her friend and then whammy...we see her blowing chunks right out of nowhere all over her Pucci swim skirt. The crew got the hose out and were trying to clean it up. Meanwhile Greg and I were deciding which way to run to avoid the lethal spray that was coming at us in every direction. We landed a safe spot, leeward side, and clung to each other for the remaining thirty minutes to land. I was tempted at one point to jump off and swim the rest of the way but I stopped myself. I probably could have used the cardio.

We were able to admire a gorgeous sunset the next night out on the dock, with 18 dollar martini in hand. Greg had splurged a little and upgraded his Red Bull with premium vodka. And for a bargain of only eleven bucks, got to keep the whole can. That poor man...bless his heart. He dropped some serious coin while we were there. Between the tipping, the noshing and Mama's Paul Bunyan bar bill, that place can really stick it to a guy. He was handing out ones like they were tic-tacs. After the amazing pink and teal sky show, we made our way toward the launch, stopping first to take some photos of an elegant white sea egret posing ever so handsomely on the dock rail. I must have turned him off with my vodka breath because he gave me a very disgruntled look and flew off into the balmy night sky as I was left to struggle with my cheap, crappy flip-phone.

We made our way over to the mainland that night, to check out the infamous Duval Street and all its shenanigans. The restaurant ended up being a little farther than we had thought and I began to get a blister on my heel. Well, my trusty mate could not have been anymore of a Cary Grant..he hailed a rickshaw to carry me the rest of the way. With our buzz on, we didn't realize, however, that we were in fact not that far from our destination...so it didn't take long for the cute, biking Serb to get us there. We had just enough time to admire his well-developed calves when he pulled us up right to the front door. And to think...it only cost Greg 19 greenbacks to go a block and a half. We ate a very good Italian meal and ended up seated next to a friendly couple who were from Northwest Arkansas. Small world, non? Afterward, the two of us staggered out to hail another ride back down to the harbor (yeah, yeah, even though Greg had told me over dinner that "he didn't care if my freaking leg fell off..he wasn't laying down another 20 bucks to go two blocks")...Aww, he made an exception though for his drunk, crippled friend and splurged on yet another nice pedi-cab ride. And once again- a Serb guy. We couldn't help but ask, '..what gives with all you Slav folks?" The young man told us there were quite a few Serb youth who come over to the Keys to make money to bring home to their families. It must have worked. Greg gave him a huge tip. It was also on that very same rickshaw, that a lot of other oddly interesting talk went on between us. From trying to guess Ernest's favorite cocktail, to gab that spoke of the mystical, coincidence of traveling 1300 miles across the country to find yourself sitting in the very same restaurant, next to two people from your very same small town...then on to learning something I never knew about my buddy of many, many years- his favorite line in a film. Ever. A John Waters flick called Female Trouble. It is most certainly worthy of repeating here, as it nearly made me laugh my butt right out of the carriage but I must refrain as the Daily Mag has and always will have a PG rating.

Despite our beer goggles, we miraculously found our way back to the dock. The next morning, our last, Gramps Nolin wanted to sleep in and that is just what we did. I got up at a luxurious 8:00am (that is late for this mother). Refreshed and ready for the last few hours in our ocean dreamland, we sadly placed our luggage on the porch and then to soften the blow, went and gorged ourselves on blackened grouper and spicy Bloody Mary's. My allergies had plagued me the whole trip. Greg had endured (stoically, I might add) a lot of very gross snorting and sniffing from yours truly. That lush Floridian foliage may be purdy but, dang..it made my sinuses go into overdrive. Plus, I had been suffering with an awful cough that had lingered for quite some time. As I hacked over my yummy drink, Big Red looked at me with disgust and said, 'I hope I don't end up getting whatever it is you got, honey child. Because some of us have to go back to work on Monday." I couldn't help but giggle over my imagined Key West newspaper headline- "TUBERCULOSIS HITS KEYS- SOURCE UNKNOWN". Without missing a beat, Greg retorts, "Two Serbs and a sea egret fall victim." He was and will always be the Conan O'Brien of the Sunshine State.

The highlight of the trip was on our way out. We stopped at the Hemingway House. The antiques, the hand-layed tile, the smell of old books...oh, I could just go on and on. The gardens were lush and tropical and don't even get me going on the gorgeous pool that took a full six months to dig (that coral rock is hard stuff). His wife, Pauline, had snuck and put it in for the kids while Papa was in Spain- to the tune of twenty grand, thank you very much. That was a whole lotta dough back in those days and, man, oh man, was he mad. Oh, well. He was fooling around with wife-number-3-to-be over there, so maybe he deserved it. Snowball, the family's six-toed cat was prominent in all the paintings and knick knacks- 25 of her descendants roam the property today. Very cuddly cute and from the looks of that extra toe, could probably rip your head off if they were so inclined. They could not have been tamer, however, and were lounging here and there around the grounds. All joking aside though, it was humbling to see the grand writer's office- a small, top floor bungalow in the back. Up the steep stairs we walked and when I peered in, there she was- his beloved typewriter. When I thought of his fingertips plunking out To Have and Have Not with a cold mojito and his beloved white feline in his lap...well, Mama got a little teary. It isn't every day you're in the midst of greatness.

Yes, I had the trip of my life. Just what I needed, too, with all the worries as of late. It made me forget for a little while. I literally woke up laughing every morning. You know you have a true-blue friend when the years and miles are between you but you're always able to pick up right where you left off. Thanks, Gregory, for showing me a fabulous time. I felt like one of those molls who has a sugar daddy. And I didn't even have to put out. ;-)