gold dust woman

Another Oscars is fast approaching, and I am having a grand ole time, dah-lings, diving into all the cinematic morsels that have been so graciously thrown my way by who I like to call my Movie Angel. As I have said before, it is my favorite time of the year and although I don't get to participate in my all-out-noms movie marathon as I did when I was a footloose and fancy-free actor back in the day, it's not too darn bad hunkering down on the sofa under a Winnie-the-Pooh throw, in my Toasties with the curtains drawn. And sometimes I get lucky and find a couple of watermelon Nerds that have fallen in between the cushions! Yesiree, a stay-at-home-mama has gotta go with the flow and although my 24 inch Sony isn't the proper way to view a good letterbox or some high-paced action..it will have to do. The kids are both in school now, so I have my mornings to gym it as it were and then reward my aching abs with a good flick. Sort of a Hurt Locker type of thing all the way around, I suppose.

I am still in the middle of catching many of them but I must say, Carey Mulligan's finely nuanced performance in An Education is my pick so far (a lovely movie by the way). Don't even get me going on Ben Foster in The Messenger. A deeply moving performance from this young man. It's a shame the lunkhead Academy voters didn't think so and instead gave the nom to Woody Harrelson. That was just too easy..the kind of role I like to call actor-proof. Oy. I don't get it. But then I never did get Hollywood. And my chunky rump is sitting here in the Ozarks on honorary SAG withdrawal..so what do I know, right?

Mr. Foster's love scene with the wonderful Samantha Morton was as soft as smoke and didn't even involve a kiss. I just love these young actors who take the job seriously and un'affected'ly and really do the work because so many out there waste our time. And, I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound all ornery with my gold lamé panties in a bunch but.....well, now, you folks know I joke about alot of things but when it comes to the craft of acting and the power of cinema, Mama is heart-attack serious. No, it isn't a cure for cancer but it does have the power to change people, I think. Movies have meant and still mean so much to me. When I was a wee lass, they helped to inspire me to do more, do better, to feel deeply...comforted me when things got scary and opened this small-town girls eyes to all the promise and possibility out there on this big beautiful ball of rock. As old as I am, I'll never forget the sync of my finger taps on that smelly Malco armrest with the click of Tony's boots as he bopped his way down the sidewalk with the polyester dancing around his ankles. Almost spilled my Tab. Or the Vangelis synthesizer pulsing over the ocean-sprayed chest of Ben Cross in a slo-mo Chariot beach run. Well, I guess Mama is dating herself a little bit here. But, hey, we are still making a lot of good films today...and there's color now! ;-)

Yes, I've enjoyed quite a few of this years nominations. Gearing myself up for Precious. I am sure it will be amazingly powerful, but especially now that I'm a mom, the child-abuse stuff is almost too hard for my heart to bear. I'm still freaked out over that Eastwood/Jolie film last year. Today came extremely early as I set the alarm for Inglourious Bastards. Nothing like Tarantino at 5 in the morning. Great flick though. Cristoph Waltz- brilliant. Up is the only one "mom-approved" this year, so I have to squeeze in my viewing whenever I can. Delightful movie that Up. I'm certain it will nail the Animated Feature o' the year.

I still have to venture out into the wild blue yonder and catch Avatar. I'm not a huge Cameron fan. I'm still hurling from that King of the World schmaltz. I'm sure it will be an eye-popper though with that stereoscopic 3-D thingy majigger cam he's developed. I just can't for the life of me figure out why these film makers have to take three hours to tell a story! Good Lord. I'm with Hitchcock and feel 'the length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder'. And yes, unfortunately, it could very well destroy the underdog and possibly sweep it all this year. Again, though- what do I know? The only award I have is for the lead in my senior high musical. And the plastic arm is broke off it. Aw, hell, Mama likes her movies with real people in them, what can I say? Speaking of Hell, on to hotter and hornier things- Bridges was great..best hair in Hollywood, that guy. I'm a sucka for that melancholy, smoky, boozy bar room kinda stuff. The song should snag the award. T-Bone usually has a golden touch. Clooney was a real charmer in Up in the Air. Terrific screenplay..hope it wins. My hubby's correct in saying he's the Cary Grant of our day. Smart as a whip, funny and dang...looking fine in a well-made Italian suit, isn't he ladies? The sexy actress opposite him was very good, too. Good old-fashioned chemistry, those two. And what a great way to earn a paycheck! You know, I'd like to see Bigelow blow the roof off and win it for Hurt Locker. Besides being the flick of the year..how cool would it be for a lady to bring home that golden boy for once and shake it all up...make a little history? Better yet, she'd get to have a major one-up on the old ex-husband! You go girl!

Oh, I could just go on ad nauseum about Academy Award season. Baldwin and Martin are going to rock the joint. I just hope Alec doesn't pull out the cell and get into a fight with the kid midway through. I miss my Billy Crystal but what are ya gonna do? Maybe he'll come out of that Bogart shadow one day to host again and bless us with those ab fab Best Picture montages of his. Speaking of hosting, the Mags aren't having their annual Oscars in the Ozarks this year. Boo hoo. No glycerin needed for me. I'm at the crest of a hormone tsunami and am simply not up to it. Bummer..but over the last four years we've sure had some laughs & good times in our red-carpeted double-wide.

I think it is quite fitting that the Maglets and I have chosen to do a "Snuggie Oscars" for this 82nd Academy Award extravaganza. My tired old butt is actually looking forward to a feet up on the coffee table, store bought dessert type of evening. And hey, how cool is this- if I get hammered, I can just fall over on the sofa as I will be all ready for bed. No covers needed. Check the gate and moving on! The girls are anxiously awaiting their virgin strawberry daiquiris. Feathered and baubled-up lucite cocktail glasses have been assembled and are good to go. Of course, Mama Bear and Papa Bear will be having something just a wee bit stronger to go down their two goozles. Uh-oh, better call in the focus puller. Yep, the red carpet is going to be laid alright but the couture is going to be understated to say the least. And that is okey-dokey by me. Listen, if Bjork can where a swan sticking out of her ass and Celine..with that fedora on steroids, then I can wear a damn robe. Besides, I'll have on my zirconium studs. I'm not completely white trash.

As if this month couldn't get more eventful, I just had the clapboard snap shut on another birthday this week. Jeesh. The "big 50" is looming ever so close as I inch my way slowly down those perverbial stairs toward that close-up. Nose hair and all. You can call me Norma, but I am surely not ready for it by a long shot, Mr. D. Yes, yes, in theory I should just step up on that apple box with pride and courage and spit middle-age right in the eye but...I am simply too disgusted to do anything else other than cuddle up in a glittery Size XL schmatte that wears like a blanket and stuff myself with chocolate volcano cake. Self pity aside, I did manage to have a nice little celebration with the fam this week to ease all the pain. After two loads of laundry, a sinkful of dishes & some minimal surface cleaning, that is. A mother's work is never done. Even on her birthday. That evening, we noshed on pulled pork & warm ciabatta and jammed two hours straight on Michael Jackson tunes with the girls. I threw my shoulder out dipping T-Mag on Beat It. It hurts like hell but I could still manage to hold a gold, eight pound, sword-wielding bald guy if given the chance. I was served Cheerios & strawberries in bed, fit for the Leading Lady I am, and given a humongous birthday card with my age fully emblazoned upon it for all to see. In bright purple, size 72 font, no less. Good times. Thanks, girls.

So here's to movies, ladies and gents. Let's raise our glasses, even if they aren't Waterford, to the gift of good film making and good acting! Its starry klieg has served to inspire hope, fuel the dreams and feed the heart of this old girl through many a year, no doubt about it. And that's a wrap.

Hey, who says I don't have an Oscar?



Thanks, girls. Mama loves you.

hello, gorgeous

It's that time of year again for.....Mama Mag's Oscar Trivia, Quotes and Ballot for the 82nd Academy Awards!

Happy V-Day, baby. Thank you for the times, the laughs, the years, the love....and especially for those two little pieces of sunshine we made. As my path continues to unfold, it is by the light & heart of you three, I find my way.

bobo

We recently celebrated my father's 90th birthday. I am grateful for his health and happiness and that my two young children have had the precious opportunity to know their grandad. His life story, I have shared in an earlier post, so today I will simply say, 'Thanks Dad, for putting your family first, for inspiring us with your tales and toughness and for all those Ray Charles tunes when I was little. I feel closest to you when I hear his voice.

true grit

The human spirit is alive and well. Within the darkest of times, we are able to lift ourselves up and over obstacles we never thought we had the capability of doing. Hope lives under any circumstance. And it bubble-wrapped this amazing young man...for eleven long days, under tons of cement, with no light and no one beside him. Seeing him squeeze his shoulders past the rock and rubble, crawling on his belly to freedom, took my breath away. It filled me with emotion, fueled me with its gift, scared the holy hell right out of me and embarrassed me at the thought of my own puny everyday fears that hold no comparison whatsoever to all this brave boy had to endure in a horrifyingly claustrophobic hole of almost certain death. This 24 year old Haitian store clerk defied the odds and was very fortunate to have the stones fall where they did. But it's so much more than just cookies and soda.

His tenacity inspires me and the beauty of his single tiny life holds a light so bright..so precious..that within the grave of a 111,000 dear lives lost...it serves as a reminder of just who we are and the majesty within, the strong fabric of which we are made of as people, the difference we can make in each others lives and it cradles us at those times when we fear our hearts will break.

Cheers to this gentleman's brother who heard the taps and would not stop believing until he got the miracle he needed. And may we all surface through the worst of times like Wismond Exantus did...with remarkable resolve, a smile, by our own strength and unshakable faith and into the arms of someone who cares.

over-joyed

Well, the Mags had a pretty darn good holiday. We listened to some tunes, watched some of our favorite flicks, ate a boatload of peppermint bark and were quite fortunate that Santy not only shimmied his porky butt down the chimney, but he personally called the girls. It was a squeal fest. Thanks, Tommy. ;-)

As far as 2010 goes...um, not so much. Yeah, yeah, I know. From my last posting, I ought to be pumped up and energized for all the "good things to unfold" in the New Year. After all, a Pointer Sistas new attitude was one of my resolutions, but... Hey, it's not my fault. I tried. I really did. I just didn't know then that my kids would be up my snoot and out of school for a whole week of snow days, immediately following a two week Christmas vacay! That's 22 days, people. 22 long ones. Oy. It’s as if my nerves have been bounced on 'til every speck of pulp is gone. Leaving Mama like an empty tube of toothpaste..a hollow, limp, unbreaded calamari. I tried to pull out some of my best vaudeville..dance a jig...entertain them as well as I could, but with 8 degree temps and ice as slick as snot on a doorknob, what's a poor parental unit to do? It went from the Walton’s to the Gosselin’s pretty damn fast.

A poor woman can only hear Cinderella's carriage theme for so long....can Easy-Bake only so many cakes...can struggle just so many times to put on those rubbery little doll clothes they have now that are an absolute killer for middle-aged arthritic hands. If it wasn't for raiding the liquor cabinet, this ole gal would have never made it through the whole snowy SyFy experience. Naw..our holidays were very nice but they just went on a l-i-i-ttle too long for Mama's liking. I'm all for touchy-feely, yuletide fun but when it's over- it's over. You should have seen me putting up the holiday decorations. I was pulling the lights off the roof like Crispin Glover. Ornaments, Christmas c.d.s, Frosty salt and pepper shakers..it was getting drop-kicked right on into the bins. Meanwhile, both girls whining, clutching their stockings, "Mommy, we don't want it to be over! You're mean! We're telling Daddy!".

You know, I'm torn. I really am. Sometimes I think I was better in the old cat lady days. Yes, they were in bed with me every night, too, but at least they slept at the foot of it and not across my carotid. Sure, I had to vacuum every single day but no laundry to really speak of. The litter box wasn't pretty, but I have to pick up the girls room every evening and it's basically the same thing. Especially since T-Mag is still in a nighttime Pull-up and insists on putting them under the bed after she takes them off in the morning.

Now, finally...written with a super-big exhale, we flash forward....and it's been almost a week after drafting this post and I have them both back in school. My oldest has forgotten how to add and write. Literally. Her penmanship has gone to chicken scratch and last night, she was using her toes to get through her math assignment. Big Daddy has the breakfast shifts now, so he's out of here by 5am...and that means I have to deliver both kids front and center to two different schools and at the same exact time. A feat that is not possible when you live in a town that has absolutely no infrastructure and two girlie-girls who like nothing better than to stare at their own faces in the mirror- smiling, like something out of Toddlers and Tiaras. Oy, God. It takes Fay Wray screams and wire hanger threats every a.m. just to get them to brush their teeth. This morning while frantically trying to make the deadline, I almost wrecked the car because I had a hot flash and couldn't get out of my sweatshirt and muffler fast enough. And all that goofy flailing was performed to the tune of not one but six rattling coffee mugs on my armrest tray and T-Mag yelling at me to get Jiminy as he had fallen top-hat first into a greasy, empty McNugget box. Good times.

I give up. What's the secret, all you super-moms out there? Huh? Is your karma so good that you can do all the above, and Pilates, make homemade brulee, hold down a full-time job, satisfy the husband and fry it up in a pan, all the while looking like a hottie in your Juicy Couture and blu-tooth?

Well, I can not. I think I need a Life Coach...the Super Nanny..something. I mean, Roseanne got picked up for syndication. Why can't I, dammit?? But I'll hang in there. I always do as my claws have sunk themselves into a pretty good grip by now. When it comes down to it though, I really do like my job. I've made a decent living at it, I suppose....have a roof over my head, dependable wheels to drive, hugs and some very sweet Eskimo kisses along the way...a hubby who didn't go out for cigarettes and never come back. No 401K to speak of. I don't know what I'll get in the end for it all...probably a Krispy Kreme do-nut and a sack or two of Depends every month when they come to visit me and their dad at our senior living facility. But that's still a couple of years away. I need to focus on the here and now. And the joyous fact that Happy Hour starts in only 180 minutes.

After waltzing into the office and over to mommy at the computer just minutes ago, with a handout sheet from her school folder, it was brought to my attention by a grinning four year old with hummus on her face that all of the county's schools are going to be closed for staff meetings on Monday.

I think today that the bar may be opening for business just a wee bit earlier than usual.

Her name is Beth Crosby, she is a Groundling in L.A. and I think she is da bomb. (don't miss her as Rachel Zoe...you'll laugh your ass off).

Watch more funny videos on Funny or Die

a year in the life

Another year has come and gone..leaving me breathless at its swift departure but eager to experience all the love, laughter and surprises the New Year will bring. Although, life's moments can not always be golden, a sense of renewal..hope..fills the crisp air at this time of year and I am humbled by it and the fortune that surrounds me in my tiny, quiet life. The buds aren't visible quite yet, nor the waters warm, but the deep cold inhales on my morning run fuel me, waking me up to what just might be around the corner. Without that crystal ball, who knows...but if I've learned anything after sweating the small stuff throughout the last eleven months, it is this- there is nothing we can not handle, nothing we can not accomplish...absolutely mustn't ever begrudge and that love heals everything. Period.

I am wishing each and every one of you a New Year that unfolds itself in perfect rhythm, in the boldest of color and with the realization that your ordinary lives are really quite extraordinary. That Tiffany box is in there and that jewel in the robe is something you already carry. Have fun unwrapping it all and sharing it with others.

To the friends who have passed this year..I wish you a peaceful transition and broad wings on which to travel wherever your journey may lead you.

Until next year, friends...

grey skies ahead!

sneaky pete

People never cease to amaze me. When you give, you get. When you give without your name on plaques and building wings, then you're really somethin'. And when a fourteen year old can rustle up 25 grand by soft selling lemonade, well...that's an angel, folks.

Click here for a little holiday pick me up.

a crappy christmas

Some wives get cars with big red bows and some get Tiffany. My man gave me that bathroom addition I asked for. Thanks, hon.

an app for that

It's that time of year again when we let out a collective "Duh" to the Universe and realize just how much goodness we really do have in our lives and how whiney-assed we've gotten about in the last eleven months and how vitally important it is to rev our engines against all the filibusters and flying golf clubs out there. Jeesh, I'm tellin' ya, I think one of Mama's resolutions will be nothing but HGTV and Food Network after the first of the year. I mean, if you want purity of mind, body and spirit...it doesn't get any better than bull nose granite and a good roast chicken.

As I said before, the challenge lies, at least with me anyway, in not only gunning up my rpms during this merry jingle-ball season but maintaining that darn momentum throughout the year amidst all the dirty socks and utility bills. Up until a decade ago, I was pretty much a person who erred on the side of depression. I was raised by a glass half-empty type of guy but evened it all out by marrying a glass half-full one. Don't get me wrong, my pappy was great and I love him dearly but let's just say he was, um...practical. A realist, shall we say? Or not? A stand up, hard working, honest type of guy for certain...who loved me with all his heart, spanked my rump when I needed it, but believed that the hand you got dealt in life was the hand you were stuck with. Make the best of it and no complaining. Which is good, I guess..you don't want to be an ostrich or a big ole schizo about it. But why not find your inner owl instead and see the manifestation as just that? A temporary reflection of who we are at this moment in time and one of our own creation..yep,that's the tricky part...but something we can always change for the better. We are 'Gumbi, dammit' and can twist and turn in whatever direction we choose. But going from 'why me?' to 'why not?' is easier said then done and it requires effort. A cranium shift, as it were, which wasn't so easy greasy for this girl. And it still continues to challenge me every day. But that's okay. We are all works in progress and I feel that our enlightenment is in the journey itself.

I think our answers lie within our humanity rather than outside of it. And I believe our potential for victory on every level is limitless. Yeah, I know, we all believe different things, but the commonalities of truth = love, divinity = compassion is something all of us can agree upon this sparkling holiday season, non? If we'd just keep an eagle-eye on that concept, maybe we'd stop killing each other. Oh, sure, we have our gurus and People magazine to aid us along but when it comes down to the nitty gritty- we're it. And the only way to do it is through some heavy duty cardio at the cosmic gym. We have to work toward our own joy, plain and simple. I wish someone could hand it to me like a bouquet of red roses, but Mama's gotta work off those cynical calories all by her lonesome. And underneath all the carcinogens, electro-smog and co-pays...it's in there. That lean transversal ab muscle underneath all the muffin-top fat. Somewhere. Down there. We just need to put on our mystic Magoo glasses to really see our individual Monets.

Whatever that joy may be for each of us, we really do have to put it first. And for someone who has a 17 year old leaky car, a VHS and a five tee-shirt wardrobe, it ain't easy sometimes. In fact, it can be pretty damn hard. But I keep trudging away, punching my clock in the 'daily prayer into action' department and soaking up some of the gift that keeps on giving- watching the world's beautiful jardin dans Giverny come into focus by looking beyond the dots. Its clarity is pure and timeless, its power- absolute. And it unfolds itself continually in the beauty of a frost, the smell after a good rain or in the laughter of a friend. The list is endless, and that, to me, is my heaven..in the here and now. Life itself is our truest fortune. I am beyond grateful to the man that struggles along with me at the World's Gym and has decided that finding the bliss for us Mags translates to me being at home with his children 24/7. Of course, my liver and nerves aren't so happy about it but ya can't please everybody.

Yeah, when it came to Common Sense 101, I pretty much made straight A's, but as far as the making changes for the better part, I wasn't so hot at. But then, mystically enough, the Oscar didn’t come and I ended up with two Icelandic buns in my oven and the jig was up. As I've said time and time again, my kids have taught me more about finding the magic and taking stock than anybody ever has. And I truly believe it was their angelic toe-head auras that led me to my Buddhist faith and filled up all my empty holes before I even had the little peanuts flipping around inside me! Life is all about rhythm and it's up to us to put on that gold lamé and shake what our mamas gave us. Some of us look pretty dorky doing it, but, hey, so be it. We can dance it like Baryshnikov or Ed Grimley. It doesn't matter as long as we are groovin'. I believe without a doubt, I was in the white girl overbite zone when it came to relocating five years ago to be with the aging parental units. I listened..I heeded and as difficult as it's been sometimes, it has been sooo worth it. Don't get me wrong. More often than not, that omnipresent whisper doesn't always work and the Universe has to take out its mallet and clonk us on the head a time or two. And sometimes, at its deepest revolution..it opens up a can of whoop-ass like nobodies business. Even then, though, there's always a way to the side of the ring... to stitch ourselves up, rinse out our mouths and find our Adrian.

Of course, kids aren't the answer for everyone although they are divine at deflating egos..which we really don't need that much of anyway, making us laugh our asses off and calling us out in every conceivable, wonderful way. And in my case, hopefully one day will be able to make Mama a mean martini. We all have our individual thang but what's essential is finding that peace of heart through all the chaos and doing everything in our power to water it and watch it grow. Not an easy task in today's world. And the beauty of the Universe is such that when our tanks are on empty....like when we just walked out of Wal-Mart after standing in line for 25 minutes waiting on a price check for a Polly Pocket, by a checker that looked like she just sucked on a lemon, realizing after we left that we forgot to get milk while walking behind some teenager who's yee-hawing into her blu-tooth, but not before stopping to park her cart up against your car door and then getting home to find that even after wildly tipping the wine box like a crazy person, there's not a single drop of the golden nectar in it. Yes, even then, if we do our crunchies and kettle-ball lunges, all it takes is a simple prayer for a portal and the Universe will reflect it back on ya with a glamorous klieg. Sometimes it can feel like a tiny flashlight but you get the idea.

Rhythm begets movement, movement begets change (kind of like fiber, good for ya whether we like it or not)....and in light of the holiday retail season- our life is in a sense, returnable! Well, sort of. We can't get our money back exactly but we can exchange it for something better. I mean why settle for that Chia Pet from Rite-Aid, when you can have those Tiffany studs! No need to re-gift it to some poor slob that's got one of his own but we can march right on up to that Customer Service window and say, "No thanks. This only has one speed and I want the de-lux version with all the attachments". Now sometimes we don't necessarily get exactly what we want or should I say what we think we want, but as Mr. Jagger so eloquently put it, we get what we need. That was and continues to be me..all over.

So here's wishing every one of you out there the happiest of happys and the deepest of joy this holiday season. Spend less time in the mall and more time on the meal. And keep shaking that damn bell until you hear the blasted thing ring. And if that still doesn't work for ya, then reach for the liquid bliss and your cockles will be all warmed up in no time. Like stripes on a candy cane..it just works. For myself, I can only hope that Santa has checked his list, twice over, and brings me that big red bag of estrogen I wrote to him about.

Dear Santa,

I want a Diamond Castle Barbie and a carriage. Well, another carriage..because mine is broken. I want real toes shoes. I like you, Santa. I want a toy stove and a mailbox. And pretend glasses. A wig that's black..and a Santa hat. I am glad feeling. But sometimes I'm bad though. I really love you. You're the bestest Santa ever!

Love,
T-Mag

P.S.) Mommy wants a big new refrigerator where she doesn't have to bend over all the time.

a prayer of thanks

Another year has come and gone and it is time again to reflect on all the fortune that fills our lives. For me, I was hoping for that granite counter top, maybe an extra coupla thousand square feet..an ass like Shakira, but I guess I will have to settle for a beautiful, healthy and vibrant family who just happen to be in the living room right now with their Chinese fans doing an impression of Mama having a hot flash. Aw..good times. It's nice that the matriarch of the Mags garners such respect.

The yummy smell of cinnamon fills the casa this morning and my dear friend is on his way south to gobble with us over the weekend. I love the jump start my battery gets from the anticipation of the holidays. It is fuel for the exciting New Year ahead and it humbles me at the rejuvenating power of love and laughter and how golden my life truly is....If this big ole world is a stage and I am a player, then I guess I'm covered head to toe in Armani and just won that Oscar I've always wanted. Not quite two years ago at this time, my husband was fighting to live and live he did. He came back to the children and wife who love him and I will never ever forget that profound experience, those who shared it with me and the shroud of protection that wrapped me and mine up like a warm Snuggie. Life is an amazing gift and I am thankful for its beautiful song. Here goes-

I am thankful for my mother and father who at almost 90 still grace us with their presence and love. They've served to inspire me with their commitment to each other, to their children, and I am who I am because of them. For my sister, who is walking a difficult journey with me right now..at my side..giving me courage when I need it, a soft shoulder to cry on and a glass of wine when I'm just looking for an excuse to self-medicate. I could not do it without you. To my niece and great-niece, I wish you all the love and sunshine your lives can hold. To my in-laws, I wish you joy always.

I am thankful for my friends. You are the jewels in my crown, the sparkle in my gold lame Samba costume if I had one..you're a light, a gift to me. We've noshed, drank, cried, prayed & laughed together and I'm grateful for every darn bit of it. You've encouraged & inspired me and told me to grow up and get a grip when I needed to hear it. If one is defined by the company they keep, then I got it goin' on 'cuz my posse rocks, ya'll!

I pray for the military men and women who are not at the dinner table today with the people who love them. I pray for their safety and their hearts to stay strong, their bodies upright and for their faith to lift them wherever they may go.

And most of all..I am thankful for my two little girls who show me how to laugh with abandon and love deeply. You are the light within me and with your love there is nothing I can not do. To my husband who busts his hump..bigtime..so that I may spend every minute I can with them, and for that teensy-weensy dose of Zoloft that keeps me from killing an innocent bystander.

I am lifting my glass to all of you readers and pray wholeheartedly that peace and happiness surround you during this holiday season. May all of the photos that will be taken of you today, occur when you're sober and have no spinach in your teeth.

night of the living mags

Another one has come and gone. Hallow's Eve 2009 didn't disappoint. We had mummies, we had ghosts and we even had a hot-footed devil. Yep, horn adorned Mama decided it was high time to lay down her pitchfork and raid the liquor cabinet after a two month long gym craze detox and found out rather quickly that Yellowtail and fire just don't mix. Would being organized and stocking matches in the utility drawer be so wrong? Apparently so. After having killed off a few more brain cells with the sis and niece over a nice dry pinot, I decided to spookify the joint with some candlelight. Who needs a Zippo when ya got a gas stove and a piece of scrunched up junk mail? As my digit began to burn, the vino suggested I could safely drop the homemade lighter on my tiled floor which in turn led to even more combustion which then resulted in a rather feisty Riverdance by yours truly which in the end left a melted plastic boot which..oh, hell..you get the idea. Next thing I knew, I channeled Ann Miller and had my blazing tootsie in the kitchen sink. With very good extension might I add. I think the five day a week workouts I've been panting through have really paid off. That and the wise choice to wear my mom slacks with the mega pleats and nine inch zipper. It is pretty ironic after all the years I've spent with flamers, that I would end up being one myself.

The spooky weekend started off with a bang as the sis and I took the tykes to a school costume carnival. There were fangs and jack-o-lanterns galore and even an old fashioned cakewalk. We bowled, we skee-balled and screamed up a storm in a haunted house. We were the guinea pigs at the beginning of the line. And, unfortunately, with that advantage always comes a few little kinks that need to be worked out...and we Mags were just the peeps to do it. Freddy Kreuger missed his cue and me and my brood were left in pitch black darkness..literally..for about a minute and a half. As I was about to lose all effects from the Zoloft and the use of both of my rotater cuffs, a zombie came along with a flashlight just in the nick of time and saved the day...or should I say the night. The blackest of one. My four year old did sustain some permanent psychological damage but ended up deciding to go through a second time.

As if the two pounds of Reese's pieces weren't enough, we were at it again the next night. This time for our annual Mag Haunt party complete with cemetery cake and ghoul hand punch. Leave it Walmart to supply me some dud eyeballs that floated iris side down. Good grief. Am I ever gonna be able to buy anything from that store that works? Oy. The kids loved it though. Even the bloody mac-n-cheese that turned into a nauseating fuchsia glop had them smiling. Kids are so easy to please. And thank God, because when ya have Mama Mags creating things...well, let's just say that I'm not the super-mom-arts-and-crafts-June Cleaver type. Nope, with me, it's more like just the Cleaver and not any of the June part. Which leads me to the girls costumes.

Yeah, just when you thought it couldn't get any more frightening, right? Much to the chagrin of seamstresses everywhere, I glued, sliced and diced my way through a mummy get-up and a ghost. Poor W.'s oxygen stats were pretty low most of the weekend due to her homemade mask and there was a wee bit o' redneck trouble regarding the back side of her wrapping. 'Just say no to crack' I would mumble to myself as she bent over to play all the carnival games. Then there was my little curly-top who kept tripping on what I like to call her 'ghost flippers' all night until she finally begged me through the tears to take it off of her. It was just like last years mermaid outfits...due to my ineptitude with the needle and thread, I always seem to have a leftover hunk of fabric at the bottom of whatever I'm making. By that point, I'm several bottles of wine in and too exhausted to care, so I just wad up the excess, tie it with a ribbon and invent a reason for why it should be there. Hey, I ain't no Edith Head, folks. Just an Ozark mama trying to do the best she can.

The universe was definitely on our side this Halloween, as our trip through the neighborhood was very pleasant- gorgeous, full moon..the weather, simply devine. We lost Big Daddy to work after a few minutes of trick-or-treating but he was able to see his little munchkins amble their way down the lane a time or two before he took off. After a brisk stroll of about an hour or so, the ghost had to pee, so we all began to work our way back to the casa. My bone tired sis' feet were ice cold, so I headed to the sock drawer while my O.C.D.'d niece turned on the 500 watt overhead light and went through the candy, sifting out all of the potential razor blades and rat poison. We then filled our bellies with homemade pumpkin soup and more booze, rinsed the chocolate off the kiddos and tucked them in. We big girls finished our evening on the sofa watching the old 1976 classic, "Carrie". Traci and I laughed at William Katt's lion mane and the fact that none of the prom attendees had any cell phones. Bleary-eyed and buzzed and right in the middle of the pig blood, telekinetic breakdown, I looked over at my snoring sis, all decked out in her Winnie the Pooh blanket and psychedelic toe socks. Now that's darn scary, ladies and gents.

Happy Halloween to all! And remember, any excuse to embrace our inner child and overdose on chocolate is always a good one.

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