the hunt

Easter has arrived
Bunny’s whiskers twitch
He’s sniffing eggs from here and there
To find out which one’s which

Some are sweet
And some have color
All are special
None are like the other



There are fifteen be told
That linger here
You have to figure out the clues
Before they do appearIf you look with six eyes
And use three minds
Each girl will have five eggs
In their baskets to find

The Bunny is smart
He is old and he is wise
Can you find his stash?
If you think you can...then you must try!
Three live in a place
Where a screwdriver might be
It’s cool, dark and smells of oil
You must look carefully!

Three eggs lay in an area
That yields its purple berry
The bunny likes to hide beneath
So does Tink and all her fairies!
Three rest in a shelter
Among lots of bark
The black widow likes it here
Especially after darkAnd yet a sweet three more
Rest in a vessel
That no longer floats
But in the woods it nestles
Your last three eggs are in room
Where sweet dreams abide & coins abound
You might even see some photographs
Before they are found!

case sensitive

Well, I have made it through another nine long ones of no school, two hyped-up Maglets, a case of Goldfish & approximately a dozen or so replays of Barbie- A Mermaid Tale. Oy. If I had to listen to, Zuma, her metaphysical pink dolphin buddy squeal atop the waves one more time, I would have seared him rare over a bed a baby mixed greens. And these days, with Mama's self-esteem on the estrogenic edge...it's just not fun watching a pert, young, blond thing hanging ten whose mean girth z-score makes mine look like Jabba the Hut.

The Spring Break vacay ended up appropriately named, too, as it appears every single appliance, electronic- you name it....that I own is on the damn fritz! Break is right. What the heck is up? Lately, it would seem that Mercury is constantly retro in Mama's world. It all started a couple of months ago with our carbon monoxide alarm and began to go rapidly down hill from there. The no-good thing wouldn't stop screaming and is now disemboweled and laying on the top of the Brita water jug. Has been for a while now. I need to get Mr. Mag a "round tuit" the next time I go to Lowes as it is just one more job on his list of Things To Do with apparently no time to do it in. In the meanwhile, I hope I don't decide to get into the Honda and off myself in the garage or the whole family will go with me.

Don't even get me going on the fridge that sounds like a clucking Banty. Seriously. I spend quite a few of my nights on the sofa due to hot-flashing insomnia and the husband snoring like a Grizzly Bear in heat. That thing sings its chicken song all night long and I'm always amazed that the kid's milk is still cold in the morning. I know I live in the South but good grief. Oh, well, it's probably just a matter of time. I ought to give it the ole heave-ho and get my credit card out for that Kenmore Elite stainless steel series I've been dreaming about all these years. I'd have to put it all in my bedroom though since my galley kitchen can barely hold the toaster and knife set that's in it. Those two things still work, thank God.

Speaking of hens..I continue to be mad as a wet one because in the last week or so this immutable techno-karma has even affected my cell, which besides Grey Goose, is every mom's lifeline and must be working and available at all times. It's seized up..not accepting much of a charge. T-Mag may have stuck a red hot in the port thingy, who knows? Not that the 384 pictures, 60 vids and several dozen text messages and a plan with no Internet on the darn thing has anything to do with it. I won't rattle on about the mangled thumbnail I have from trying to press down on the worn-out five year old keys. I see those touch screen I-phone commercials and cry like a baby. An app here, an app there..but, alas, not an app in sight for this SAHM & her monthly budget. Apple can really wring it out ya. Hey, my kid loves her ballet class. It's one or the other. Besides, hubby tells me he thinks there's a law against Facebooking while driving. Ridiculous.

So I dried my tears and got it together and called a beloved techie pal in to save the day. He ended up getting me all of my pics & stuff with this teensy weensy little thing he called a memory card. And I got to show him the neat cup holder I have on the front of my PC tower! Too bad he doesn't do windows or fix 16 year old cars that are hemorrhaging fluid by the buckets all over the carport that ironically look like pools of blood. He suggested that I may have an electromagnetic aura that conflicts with all the mechanisms surrounding me. He's probably right. Could be that or the fact I'm not catching the Z's anymore. After four months of pretty much a no-result treatment on Zoloft (supposed to help us old gals out on our menopausal ride), I'm back to "feeling" again and boy am I ever! I'm making up for lost time. Ya know, it's like I told my doc, I'm more of a Daniel Day Lewis type and that crap made me feel like Tiger Woods at his whoopsy-daisy press conference. It just didn't help me the way I needed it to. I don't really need to stop crying at Geico commercials, I just need to feel energetic, motivated... decent would be nice. And I want my old boobs back, is that so wrong? Too bad I didn't buy Walmart stock in the '70's or I could do the bio-identical route. I've now moved on down the red-clover & dong-quai path and am crossing my fingers. Yep, I think my bud is definitely on to something. It is sort of like a weird negative force field and I'm the Enterprise desperately trying to find my planet. If I'm beamed up, folks, it will only be by pure miracle. And surprisingly, that's just what I got when I washed the husband's cell phone the other day.

We were sitting, watching some tube, and I began to hear this eerily, low hum coming from what sounded like underneath the house. With my luck as of late, I thought it might be a pipe getting ready to burst or something and I was in a panic to find its source. Our auditory journey finally led all four of us to the mudroom. Well, I say mudroom...but what I mean is the crappy little closet that the washer/dryer is crammed into with an accordion door that won't stay on its hinges. I need to start wearing the kid's bike helmet as it came 'undone' the other day and almost broke my left shoulder. Good times. I'll make a mental note to jot that down on Geez's To Don't list. Yep, lately, life is just one big oy.

Anyhoo, after a while we finally traced the close encounter into the very, very bottom of the washer (long cycle, extra hot, shot of softener). There it lay. It's tiny Samsung shell of a body..soaked. The wallpaper, no longer showing the bright faces of our smiling children..now just black and lifeless. I was furious & would have kicked my own ass if I had the flexibility. The husband? Elated. He had been dogging me for months about a new phone, so my carelessness really set him up just fine, didn't it? He probably threw the damn thing in there when I was making a drink. "Well, it looks like we both need new phones now, huh, sweetie?", he says. He then went on to do a two-minute nicely prepared serio-comic monologue about all the great AT&T deals. I had to think fast, so I reminded him how at one point we had shared a car for five years so why not my archaic turd of a mobile? He wasn't too keen on that idea to say the least.

So long story short, we took out the dripping battery, laid it down on a towel to dry and began to pray for its resurrection. Hey, Easter is just around the corner, who knows what could happen? And I'll be damned, by morning's light...it was up and running again! I need to shoot off an email to Samsung and let them know what a good product it is they're making. Been working ever since, too. Impressive. Granted, when he tried to take a pic of the girls at the park the other day, they appeared to have four heads between them and were a Hulk-ish green, but hey, it has a bar or two left, dials out and the creditors can still ring up and harass us, so it appears we're good to go.

Yes, Mama Mags is quite mechanically-challenged these days to say the least but onward, my friends. This past week, we did manage an overnight stay a couple hours away that came with a little before-summer pool fun. The girls loved it and got to burn off some of that endless manic energy of theirs. Strangely enough, it wasn't very busy, so they upgraded us to the Honeymoon Suite. Again..with the irony. I was excited until we opened the door. The room's furniture was quite tired and the toiletries came out of a dispenser but it did have a mega-sized lovebird Jacuzzi tub! The kiddos got to splash and carry on for hours that night. I was exhausted from our Appalachian travels that had us lost up a winding, country road on the way there so I just took a shower, ate a half of a bag of Milanos and went to bed.

We caught a couple of activities the next day. The girls, after begging profusely, got to go to the Butterfly Palace and catch a somewhat humid glimpse of a gorgeous array of fluttery species from all over the world. A wild 3-D flick on the majesty and amazing workings of the caterpillar/chrysalis was shown, and overall, I thought it was pretty cool. Will made me climb a plastic cocunut tree which led to a couple of pulled hamstrings and a fifteen-minute descent. Ouch. Only in Branson, kids!The Icelander and I each took a turn at the Titanic Museum. Interesting, quite a few artifacts...a very sobering journey from start to finish. They had Cameron's original bottom-of-the-sea model that he used in the beginning of the film, a few pieces of the china, a lot of photos..even a re-creation of the Grand Staircase. I was told by an attendant that people get married there. Sheesh. We were handed a boarding pass as we went in, assigning us a person that was on the ship that fateful night. I got a domestic servant, Third Class. Figures. She did make it out alive though. Broke but scrappy. That's me all over.

I don't want to be too long-winded, so I'll leave out the part about the wristwatch not working & the lousy computer that's beginning to shut off willy-nilly, rearranging the desktop and scanning itself to death. I do have to bitch for one second about my vacuum cleaner though. I have this really dysfunctional hate/hate relationship with those things. I'm sure a shrink could dig a little deeper and find out the why of it all but...I don't what it is. I loathe vacuuming. Always have. I think it comes from the trauma of having to do it every single day for ten years as G. and I had not one but four indoor cats when we moved in together. They shed like crazy. It could also be the lat muscle that separated from the bone in a nasty fall I had between a mop bucket and the napkin rack at a greasy spoon where I waited tables many moons ago. It hurts like the dickens when I do that particular type of repetitive movement. At any rate, it made me the bitter woman I am today and now I can not for the life of me perform that house frau duty without a bunch of naughty words, walloping and whining Dyson envy. G. tells me I'm unrealistic, expecting the thing to do a Bewitched and travel all over the casa..hands-free. I used to love that show when I was a kid, so maybe he's right. I guess when it comes down to it, I had simply run over the cord one too many times and this big puff of smoke came out of the bottom and that was it. Syonara. The one before it had met a similar death....except not before burning a fist-sized hole in the rug. Dear Lord. Father Mag's Ricky Ricardo came out on that one. He was r-e-e-ally mad.

A couple of weeks ago, with broom in hand (not as in riding on but as in sweeping), I had finally had it with my life-long inability to repair, construct, assemble, put together..oh, heck..just to understand how things work, gosh-darnit! So I pulled that stinky old Eureka out of the trash, disassembled it into 23 easy pieces, and was determined to re-chord it and fix the blasted thing and save myself 100 bucks. I fantasized a ballsy high-five with the hub when he walked through the door over how smart and handy his old lady had become. Y-e-eah! Boo-yah! Take that ITT...you don't mess with Mama Mags! Unfortunately, it didn't go down that way. I ended up with a snotty dust moustache, a broken butter knife and not a frigging clue at how to put it all back together. I'd even managed to lose three screws in the process. 'Aw, hell with it," I said, as I gave it one final kick. "Do I have anything that works in this God forsaken house?"

"I do" said the husband.

And that you do, Big Daddy. That you do.

t-mag 5

Happy birthday, angel. Your smile lights up the darkest dark..your laughter is my song. Being your mom has been my truest fortune and I am forever changed. May the week of celebration yield love from all sides, squeals galore, and yes, sugar..lotsa sugar. Oy. I pray for those teeth.

a snux deluxe

Well, despite the hurt locker headache I had at the gym the next day, we had a precious and inglourious time as the Best Picture was up in the air there for a minute, but Bigelow kicked some ass and came through for us gals and now my ozark countdown avatar has been put away for another year!

It surely was a golden evening and I could not have been happier about a lady director making history. And what a lovely tall drink of water she is! Talent and looks. And sisters..seriously. How sweet is it to kick your ex's butt by going to the Governors Ball double-fisted! I would have been parched as hell that night because I wouldn't have let go of those puppies for one minute..not even to slurp some Dom! I would have bought myself one of those 7/11 hats that you can load the beverage into at the top with the straws coming down for easy sipping. Cameron did have a rather surprised look on his face. I believe he thought he was really going to nab it but instead went down with his ship. Oh, well. That 2 billion he's made ought to help ease the pain a little. Hope he feeds and waters a few less fortunate people with some of that dough. Poor Babs had to hand over that sparkling baby to some gal other than herself. I saw a tear in her eye which I'm sure was part 'yippee, a win for our side' but just a wee bit of 'what...was Yentl so wrong?"

Our Snuggie Oscar fete was a blast and tres comfy. Although after my first drinkie-poo, I had a wicked hot flash and had to strip down to some cooler garb for the rest of the evening. Big Daddy was an absolute hit and a hoot in his "snuxedo". Don't think I've yee-hawed that hard in awhile. We gobbled up a tasty chicken marsala and some lemon meringue pie and washed it down with a little Goose...making some sweet memories with the children. And some blurry ones for the hubby and me. It is just so gosh darn fun to be silly with my Mags. We were joined by a dear friend who we hadn't seen in awhile..who showed up wearing her sweater backwards, in my honor. Yes, all was cuddly and glitter-glam...Arky style, dah-lings! We were also lucky to get some beautiful weather on the Red Carpet and even saw a star or moo..er, I mean..an oink?



So the champagne dreams and lamé are put away for another year as Oscars in the Ozarks-5 has come to a close. I had the winning score on the Ballot but due to the recession and slim pickins on the guest tally, it didn't yield me any extra greenback. The kids drove us batty all night, salivating over the dark chocolate Ferrer Rocher Trivia prize. Lucky for them, it was won by their father, so it only took about two seconds for their grubby little mitts to attack, leaving only a slobbery piece of chipboard and a wad of crumpled gold leaf on the floor.

There was quite a bit of Facebook talk the next morning saying the show was a snoozefest..but you know, Mama's easy to please. Any awards broadcast is a decent one for me when Rob Lowe doesn't sing or dance in it. I didn't think they really gave Baldwin and Martin much to do. I thought Doogie's number was funny. I'm sure they are prepping him for next years show. It was rather lengthy, closing its curtain at almost 11:00 pm. My peepers were getting heavy but I was so motivated to see Hurt Locker win, that I made it through. Plus, it took that long to drink my martini Big Gulp.

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).

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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.