Welcome to Maggy's World

We were late for the symphony....42 minutes left for a 45-minute drive downtown, not to mention paid parking a block from the venue. With classical music droning on and no seating during a performance, I'm figuring we'll be stuck in the lobby until the band and cheerleaders take the field. Through some stroke of dumb luck and prudent speeding, we actually plopped down on our seats just seconds before curtain time.

At intermission, I was bent for the restroom.  Bill, like so many of his species, seemed content to remain seated.  (What is with that plumbing system?)  I left my purse with him and retreated for relief.  Imagine my surprise when I returned to—no one.  The man had split.  I could only guess that he had changed his mind about the state of his bladder.

I had to stifle a smile at the thought of him packing my petite bag around and headed back to the lobby to catch him in the act.  No Bill in sight.  The usher at the end of our aisle was close by, so I approached her and casually mentioned that my sweetheart was probably walking around with my purse in tow.  She said, "Oh yes, I definitely saw a big fellow with a purse—not tossed over his shoulder or tucked under his arm, either. He was carrying it just like you would."  I laughed, "Well, he must be very sure of his masculinity." And she said, "No, that's love."

By this time he was indeed walking through the lobby in all of his glory, his Marine persona intact, gorilla arms at his side—one with a lovely purse in hand. Completely at ease, he broke into a grin when he saw me.  Talk about your Kodak moment.  We shared some raucous laughter with the same usher on the way back to our seats. Only then did the full reality of his mission dawn on me. Bill wasn't just wandering around the lobby.  He went to the restroom! 

I asked if he hung my purse on the small hook in the stall.  (Wouldn't you want to know?) 

"Stall?  I didn't need a stall. We stand next to each other, remember? I just did this." 

Then he mimed the way he tucked the thing under his arm as he "aimed" (spare me) and set it on the counter while he washed and dried his hands. Now my imagination has lapsed into deep shock. 

"Were other men in there?" 

"Well, of course. It was intermission; the place was swarming with them." 

"Did they stare at you?" 

"I don't know. I wasn't paying attention." 

"Weren't you embarrassed or worried at all about what they were thinking?"

"No, I was just taking care of something for you…it didn't matter what it was." 

The usher was right. 

When I shared this with my friend and new mother Amanda, she said, "Kevin is going to hear about this one.  He refuses to carry the diaper bag because it's PINK!"

Copyright © Margaret Michaels 2008 All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.

 

The 20-minute Love Affair 

Decades have come and gone since the days when policemen sent me off with a simple warning.  Frankly, I thought warnings were all they ever wrote in my slim and toned youthful era of mini-skirts, halter tops, and cut-off jean shorts.

Marriage and babies changed all that, but not as irrevocably as divorce and single parenthood.  On the night in question, I was just another harried, middle-aged lady with a 31-inch waistline who suffered from occasional hot flashes—not to mention an unsightly neck hidden by scarves.  The concept of opposite-sex attraction had become so foreign that I felt like an A-sexual life form dropped into an alien universe.  With my mortally wounded female ego, obsessive financial stress, and a libido buried alive under 15 tons of epic disappointment in life, resurrection was unlikely.  Not the faintest memories or even imaginings of romantic feelings had survived—until that fateful evening when Warren showed up out of the blue in a flash of bright light.

It was past all of our bedtimes that Sunday night when my daughters and I were making the long trek from a downtown Phoenix venue to our small town of Fountain Hills.  We were exhausted.  The route home had been plagued by hair-pulling frustration, from missed freeways to an endless sea of construction nightmares.  By the time we reached the long, empty, inviting stretch of the aptly named Beeline Highway, speed limit signs had lost all meaning.  Without some brake slamming, I might have driven right by our intersection.  That's when I noticed the flash of a white vehicle to my right.

Following a string of four-letter words that predominately begin with S or F, I hollered to my teenage daughters: "Was that a policeman beside me?”  The girls squinted to scrutinize the darkness and quickly countered, “No, but there is one behind you now.”  Visions of hundred-dollar bills swirling down a toilet bowl.

Flashing red and blue lights split the night as our two cars made the left turn together.  Over I pulled in waves of adrenaline, immediately scrambling for paperwork between the glove compartment and my billfold.  To play it safe and avoid passing traffic, the officer knocked gently on my daughter’s window and said something about me meeting him on the passenger’s side of his car.

He wasn't talking about inside the patrol car, as I discovered when I walked around him and nearly brushed him aside trying to crawl into his front seat.

"No, no, no, you don't have to get in.  We can just stand out here."

Although I caught a glimpse of a stifled grin, my own crimson embarrassment set off the nervous impulse of a mouth run amuck at warp speed.

With my speeding offense on the extreme side, I thought it better to avoid mentioning the unreasonably low limit on the Beeline or that I had no idea how fast I was going.  He obviously knew.  Still, his voice was gentle when he halted my endless fumbling through copies of insurance verification with, "This one is current. We have everything now."

As he continued to review my credentials—write and copy, write and copy—my babbling veered wildly into encounters with other state patrol officers.  Excellent move.  Let's convince the man with the clipboard and shiny badge that you are multi-state offender with a chronic speeding problem.  My monolog required no response from him and had the frenzy of a Robin Williams stand-up routine.

"The officers in Ohio all wore really cool hats that made them look like they belonged to the Canadian Mounted Police.  Remember that old movie with Nelson Eddy—and who was that with him?—Jeannette McDonald!   He sang 'The Canadian Love Song' to her."

Before I could say "It goes like this" and begin belting out a soulful rendition of the opening line, “I’m in love with you-ooo-ooo-oooo-oooo,” the Divine intervened.  The voice within that is usually so small was, on this occasion, quite adamant: "Don't sing. Do not sing." 

Even more startling than the sensation of having my mouth duct-taped by Spirit was the realization of the heartfelt emotion that would have carried that tune into the stillness. Like some 16-year-old surrendering to the tender passion of a first love, my heart would have meant every word.  If I live to be 105, I will never really understand or be able to describe the power that was moving through that space of flashlight-illumined darkness between us.  How could standing so close to a perfect stranger evoke such a warm, safe, sweet breath of swirling energy?  How could that sweet breeze blow gently through the window of my mind, capturing the most tender, innocent part of my heart and carrying it away? 

Somewhere in that brief, timeless moment of silence, the officer turned away, leaned over into the front seat of his car and brought out his own hat. 

"You mean one like this?" 

Which sent me into a fresh gush of wonder, “You do have one of those really cool hats!" 

"Actually, I think that every state highway patrol officer in the nation has one. I just don't wear mine at night." 

And from there, our conversation flowed.  We talked about pressures on teenagers and how crazy the world has become.  Whether Fountain Hills should continue "renting" county marshals for law enforcement or support their own police department.  After all, he informed me, it was the largest community in the state without its own protection force. 

I remember wanting to stay there forever, just talking—watching his expressions change and feeling that miraculous energy.  Maybe some sweet angel was hovering between us but it seemed that he was the angel. A messenger sent to deliver ancient memories of a deeply loving romantic friendship.  Memories that needed desperately to be stirred before they withered beyond the reach of any one lifetime.

He smiled and nodded toward the car where my two daughters sat patiently waiting. 

"Looks like you have a few other places for your money than speeding tickets.  If I let you go this time, can you drive the limit on the Beeline from now on?" 

Oh absolutely I could promise that.  A promise I never broke.  And with a wish for our safe trip home, he handed me the paperwork and accepted my thanks for the tender mercy.  The moment I opened my car door, both girls chimed in with, "What was going on out there?  You two were totally flirting with each other." 

Still floating on air and feeling every bit the giddy schoolgirl, I couldn't help but smile. "You think so?  I mean, both of us?" 

"Are you kidding, mom?  We could see it and feel it way back here!" 

Warren Smith was the name on my warning ticket.  The handsome and disarming armed Highway Angel who came along and resuscitated my battered heart with an infusion of pure hope.  How mysteriously, how easily he restored my crushed faith in safe, sweet, eternal love.  Warren gave me a promise, too.  Faint but indelible words that he wrote on the wall of my heart: Love can be as it was in your most innocent dreams, and it can be yours.  Don't give up.

Copyright © Margaret Michaels 2008 All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.

 

I love living in a small town. Only in Fountain Hills could you become passionately embroiled in shouting wars about the evils of a new Target store or the merits of a doggie park.

As a concerned citizen, I do believe it's time to recognize a genuine crisis in our community. Something has to be done about the subversive tactics employed by the drive-through liquor store. The first offense is down-the-line price gouging on "must have" items like alcohol and cigarettes. But apparently, it wasn't enough to single out and persecute those who prefer to roll up, roll down the window, and hit the road again. Last year, they started hanging posters for Haagen Dasz in full view. Oh, please—isn’t one addiction to a customer enough? And what about the affect on the hired help?  Place me in daily contact with those ice-cream bars and you'd have to punch a hole in the roof and pull me out with a crane.

Which brings me to their most recent power play to boost business: Hiring a guy who looks like George Clooney to stand in the window. Tall, dark and handsome with a teddy-bear frame. Okay, okay, he’s not just a showpiece. He serves customers. But still—what’s next? 

When I asked the new cashier if anyone else thought he looked like the legendary star, he flashed a heart-pounding, Quintessential George, Sexiest Man Alive expression of amusement and admitted, “All the time.” Apparently, he was working as a waiter at a posh restaurant in Florida when a shriveled old widow dripping with diamonds scrunched up her face and pronounced in a volume that turned heads across the room, “You look just like George Clooney…only FAT!” 

The Clooney-look alike is the last straw: A blatant marketing move that shamelessly targets even the coupon-clipping, price-conscious females in our fair town. I'm sure that many of you share my feelings and know exactly where I'm going with this. The drive-through needs to step up to its "pro bono" responsibilities and alter its business model. We ladies need some real emergency retail choices at competitive prices. Things like aspirin, Tums, feminine hygiene products, diapers, laundry soap, baby suppositories, and toilet paper. Toss in some bread, butter, milk and eggs. You know, the kind of last-minute items we would love to be able to pick up without ever leaving the car—especially when we're barefooted, wearing our stained T-shirt with tattered jeans, and have three screaming kids under age five trying to strangle each other in the back seat. 

Those of you who are perceptive enough to grasp the urgency of this situation can join my picket campaign right outside the window of the liquor store—in full view of the cashier. We’re just going to battle this thing as long as it takes.

Copyright © Margaret Michaels 2008 All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.

Ah yes, Prescott....Arizona’s Territorial Capital. An amalgam of rednecks, Harley riders, hayseeds, cowboys, New Age mystics, Valley weekenders and wealthy retirees. 

Arizona’s designated Christmas City is uniquely fashioned after a Midwestern village, with an impressive courthouse towering over the town square and romantic gazebo. Infamous Whiskey Row lines one side of the square, luring visitors into dimly lit saloons where neon lights glow through tufts of smoky blue air. Fine galleries, gift shops, cozy cafes, and antique shops surround the landmark red-brick Michaels Hotel, where you can almost feel the ghostly brush of satin and boa feathers on the staircase leading to the upstairs rooms.

And radiating away from this whimsical blend of Midwestern charm and Western rowdiness are charming two-story homes graced by sweeping, columned front porches with inviting swings and hanging greenery. Some have been artfully transformed into businesses, cafes and shops but most survive in varying stages of renovation as character homes beneath a canopy of ancient trees. On this glorious autumn day, whirls of golden leaves fluttered to the ground on each tender breeze. 

Hassayampa Inn was our chosen destination, reputed as being the Cat’s Meow in Prescott—brimming over with character embellishments and historic charm. Now really, how tall were these people in the early 1900s? Narrow staircases with a six-inch footprint on each step. Half-sized pillows resting on a Baby Bear bed. And a water closet with a throne that can only be saddled sideways unless you happen to be three years old and your knees barely clear the toilet seat. 

What Hassayampa Inn does offer in spades is ambiance, especially in the quaintly formal dining area. White lace curtains, etched glass, floral carpeting, vintage lighting, fresh flowers and impeccable table settings. Had we not been so cheap and arranged our day around the early-bird dinner prices, we would have missed the unexpected highlight of the entire weekend trip. 

Only one other diner—a lone gentleman—had already been seated in the unusually quiet secondary area of the restaurant. The hour was still early and the number of empty tables in the main area made me wonder why we were headed into another room. As the hostess led us to the coveted window-view table, I couldn't help but overhear the man seated alone say the word "Smothers." Apparently, the name meant nothing to the youthful waitress at his side because he followed with, "People that age usually know us." 

Smothers? Could it be? And yes, one glance at those twinkling eyes, that diminutive mustache, and the slight build crowned by well-groomed silver hair explained the entire dialog. My widening eyes met his growing grin, my hands clasping my face in fever-pitched dramatic expression. 

"Oh my God, Tommy! Is that you?" 

"No, I’m Dick." 

The slightest trace of disappointment flashed across his face, launching me into the stereotypical pigeonhole "Of course, you're the smart one!" that he probably finds more annoying than being mistaken for the beloved clown. 

Never ceasing the grin, Dick Smothers extended his hand to shake mine as he tried to rise from his chair. The poor man was still half-seated as I flew toward him with complete abandon, throwing my arms around his neck for a bear hug. (Always an awkward move.) He managed to rise graciously in the midst of my stream of giddy accolades about the Smothers Brothers, pausing to introduce himself to my sweetheart Bill who had been utterly ignored in the frenzy and was standing patiently behind me. In spite of my brash interruption of his dinner, Dick not only agreed to a picture but suggested a photo of the three of us. Pulling out my camera, I thrust it in Bill's hand, gently pushing him back as I rushed to Dick's side announcing, "Oh no, he's going to take a picture and you and ME." 

In defense of my self-absorbed behavior, I must say that I had no idea how much Bill loved the Smothers Brothers. Just could not imagine him appreciating their ultra-liberal humor or even knowing who they were, but to the contrary. He was a huge fan and never missed their show. Didn't discover that until later at our own table where I remembered that I was actually with someone. Even then, it took every ounce of willpower to keep myself from walking back and sitting down in that empty chair beside Dickie. So many questions. So much to talk about.

Always wondered how I would react to a celebrity sighting. It's clear now that I fall into the "worst nightmare" category. Bill just shook his head: "God help us if we ever run into Brad Pitt." 

Oh please, Brad doesn't do anything for me.

 

Copyright © Margaret Michaels 2008 All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.

 

I am requesting that all references and notations pertaining to my bankruptcy be removed from my credit report.  My 10 years as a fiscal leper have come to an end—with car loans at 25 percent and all the trimmings. 

I have spent a decade building a record of flawlessly on-time payments and early payoffs, and I would like my credit report to reflect that reality as opposed to depicting in all its horror the Great North American Fiscal Train Wreck of 1997. 

Thank you for reviewing this request.  I need reassurance in print that I've outlived it all—not only the bankruptcy but a divorce without the benefit of a lawyer, 18 months of job searching, the antics of my ex-husband, his ill-thought-out choice in a new mate, single parenthood, 16-hour work days, years of feeling terrified, money woes, melanoma, and menopause. 

You gotta love life! 

Sincerely,
Maggy

Copyright © Margaret Michaels 2008 All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.