Welcome to Maggy's World

If you haven't heard, we've moved again. Same zip code. Same phone number. My daughters are not pleased with our "It's May…we must be moving" lifestyle. They keep asking me for stability—some small patch of terra firma under their now sizable feet. I tell them: "These are the days when we have to grow from our heads up to the sky." (They find my shining jewels of spiritual abstractions less than inspiring.) 

Katie and Lizzy aren't involved in many extra-curricular activities at this point. Coping with the flood of change in their tender lives, keeping up the grades, having fun with friends and helping out at home is about all they can handle.  Oh wait, did I say helping out at home?  Katie is just finishing up her last year in junior high as Lizzy is preparing to enter 7th grade.  Trust me, hormonally induced havoc breaks out with the regularity of dust bunnies around the house.  Katie desperately wants her own space, although that third bedroom adds another $200 to the rent around this valley.  It would be cheaper to rent a storage unit and furnish it as her private getaway.  Better yet, she can have my bedroom and I'll retreat to the serenity of an oversized concrete box.  In fetal position, no doubt.  At least the Estrogen Rages would be out of earshot. 

The summer highlight was a road trip to Colorado to see my brother and his family.  Typical launch. I called around noon to say we were just pulling out of town for the 12-hour drive and my niece just howled in laughter. They had been assured we would hit the road in the wee hours and roll in around 5 p.m. in time for dinner. Our two families shared a roomy condo on the Grand Mesa for a few days of fishing, relaxing, canoeing, and strolling along pine-scented trails. We even had a close encounter of the wild kind with a huge black bear crossing the path right in front of us.  Okay, we were in the car at the time and the girls insist that he was petite as bears go.  I can only say that when he turned to high-tail it down the hillside, that furry rumpus looked enormous to me. 

Speaking of animals, we've had a streak of sour luck with pet adoptions this year.  The first experience was a Cornish Rex kitten—carefully selected to avoid the dreaded dander that closes Lizzy's airways.  These unusual creatures are nearly hairless with huge ears and long, skinny bodies.  The names Spock and Radar spring to mind.  Unfortunately, Lizzy had a tough time breathing when kitty was around.  The next attempt came in the form of a Jenday Conure.  Yup, a bird.  Very brilliant in color.  Quite intelligent and already a talker.  But the little wretch decided that I was his girlfriend and viciously attacked Katie and Lizzy if he even heard their voices—much less if they attempted to enter the room.  Walking around with beach towels over their heads and upper torsos was the only way to avoid having their eyes pecked out.  His sole delight was nibbling at my ears and saying "I love you."  He even spit up seeds for us to share.  (Could my prayers for Mr. Right have gone that far amuck? Was I lacking specifics?)  And that's not all. The slightest due diligence on my part would have revealed that Zazoo's species is known for eardrum-shattering cries that defy description. Good apartment pet, right? Granted, the only time he cut loose on the shrieking was every moment he spent in his cage.  We could actually hear him from the parking lot.  In less than two weeks, Zazoo drove me to a terrifying place within myself:  the one where I wring the life out of one of God's creatures with my bare hands.  The only good news was finding a woman who knew all about this possessive little control freak and actually wanted him.  Which only goes to prove that every pot indeed has a lid. 

Daughter Angela seems to be thoroughly enjoying her life in Ohio with her five-star boyfriend.  She and Jim flew out last New Year's to unthaw under the Arizona sunshine.  The two of them accompanied us to "The Phantom of the Opera," where Jim's first 20 sentences were all the same: "What kick-butt seats!" Later over Labor Day weekend, Angela and her mom Evelyn made a flash-in the-pan visit. What a ball we had, five giddy females exploring the Southwest.  We did the Sedona thing, winding our way to Flagstaff through pine-clad back roads.  Apparently, we picked up a hitchhiker during our picnic stop—announced to everyone in the car by piercing screams.  Some super-sized, winged insect of undetermined species was flailing against Lizzy and Katie, sending both girls into frenzied gyrations and high-volume hysterics.  Angela flashed her head around toward the backseat in a tirade of chastisements about startling the driver when she caught glimpse of the culprit.  Now the real screaming begins. AHHHHHH! Stop the car NOW! It's a SCORPION!   Oh really, one of the flying versions?  By the time I could safely pull over and we could evacuate the vehicle to eject the critter, he was traumatized into temporary paralysis.  We managed to flop him out on the ground but he had to be coaxed away from the vehicle wheel to avoid flattening his little ass on the way out. 

My work?  After two years, that high-salary, secure "job" continues to elude me.  In fact, my fanny has been hanging so long in the breeze that this tenuous way of life is beginning to feel like the norm.  One poorly paying part-time job, a few regular freelance clients, and lots of clients who drop a project into my life every three to 18 months.  How is this even working? Not all that well at times. At one particularly low point in the checkbook when the rent was due, a utility truck backed into my little button of a car and created a sudden windfall of insurance compensation.  The check arrived just in time.  At least this madness gives me the flexibility to "be there" for my girls and still bring home the bacon.  Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine the road would become this bumpy and demanding in these advanced Middle Ages.  Even the movie stars I grew up with—those still among the living—are doing commercials for Preparation H and Depends. My youth has flown, like that of so many others.  Katie was dumbfounded the other day when most of her classmates had never heard the name Billy Joel.  By the way, she just paid the big bucks for her first concert experience.  The artists?  Smashing Pumpkins and Garbage.  Imagine sending your kid off with: "Don't break any bones in the mosh pit!" 

I'd like to close with a note of hope for the coming year.  Even in the deepest corners of the darkness, those seemingly endless days of walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Low Self-Esteem, I've never lost the faith that everything works for our ultimate good.  Right now, I'm reveling in life's mysteries.  The cycles, the constant change, and the wheel of ups and downs that keeps turning, turning.  Maybe this snippet of poetic message says it much better: 

Life is so generous a giver.  But we, judging its gifts by their covering, cast them away as ugly or heavy or hard.  Remove the covering and you will find beneath it a living splendor, woven of love and wisdom.  In everything we call a trial, sorry or duty—the Angel's hand is there.  The gift is there.  And the wonder of an overshadowing Presence. 

May we grow in our recognition and appreciation of all of life's gifts this holiday season!

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.

Let me go on record that I toyed around with the idea of calling this one the Dirty Old Men's Club.  But in truth, there's nothing dirty about these guys.  Most of them are somewhere between 65 and 80 and shine like sterling beacons of traditional values, gracious manners, and respectful communications.  With the possible exception of their "after tennis" coffee klatch.

Ken organizes the "drop in" men's tennis group at the country club in our community.  Like most transplants from California, he keeps a separate file drawer for divorce papers.  No one really knows how many times he's been married.  And in spite of his hefty bank account, no one questions why he's currently a bachelor. Here's a snapshot.  Ken has 12-month allergies, shared by many in our fair Valley of the Sun.  Now, we all know that allergy sufferers often need to wipe their runny little noses.  What you may not realize is the comparatively high price of Kleenex tissues over toilet paper, which is something a multi-millionaire like Ken has researched to the penny.  Blow by blow.  So Ken did what anyone who is serious about his budget would do:  Installed a toilet-paper dispenser on every wall.  Kitchen, living room, formal dining room, bedrooms, hallways.  Literally every room of his upscale Scottsdale home features several toilet paper rolls precisely positioned for quick and convenient access.  No worries about clashing with the decor.  Toilet paper is the decor.  The entire place is devoid of artwork or decoration and only sparsely furnished with the very bare necessities.  Couch, television, kitchen table, bed.  Even Ken's tennis buddies had a tough time envisioning the scene.  Any woman in her right mind, save the most desperate Gold Digger, would run away screaming the moment she crossed the threshold.  I'd like to say I'm making this all up, but only real life could be this delightfully bizarre.

For all his eccentricities, Ken has ingeniously rallied the rest of the men in the community around a tennis schedule that magically expands and contracts around the number of fellows who show up.  After tennis, the entire gang heads off to coffee.  Java and whatever freebies the bakery might be offering that morning.  Let me break into this discourse by describing the shameless behavior of my own beloved in the face of freebie anythings.  He's the only guy in Costco who is walking around with 36 toothpicks from six sample stations.  Apparently, he's the unabashed leader in conversation as well.

Today, he glanced down at the Arizona Republic newspaper and announced in his resonant, booming, confident, ever-so-loud, radio-worthy, baritone voice:  "It says here that the best sex lasts from three to 13 minutes."

Now we're hearing a backlash of laughter, jokes and chiding.

One fellow hollers out:  "THREE minutes!?" 

Another shot rings back:  "Oh come on, Wynn, that's two minutes longer than you'll ever need!"   

Keep in mind that this high-volume banter is unfolding in the outdoor seating area of the neighborhood grocery store.  Thank you, Starbucks, for irrevocably altering our world.  Ned tries to discreetly bring the group's attention to the sole woman sitting quietly off at an angle from the boys.  "Fellas, please. Quiet down. Look over there."

But no, sex was the subject and they were not to be shamed or shushed.

Someone brought up Cialis and again my sweetheart boomed out: "The television ads say to contact your physician if you have an erection lasting longer than four hours."  At even higher volume, "If I had a four-hour erection, I'm sure not calling my doctor!"  Gales of laughter.  That's my baby.

At this point, responsible and sensitive Ned is beside himself as the little lady gathers up her cup and slips away.  We'll never know how her sudden exodus affected the rest of the men, but my Willy (granted, not his usual nickname) was feeling a bit red-faced about her departure.  Listening to him describe the event when he returned home, I couldn't help but crack a smile.

My verdict:  "She was either deeply offended or she just found herself in the middle of a men's locker room and decided to leave before you stripped down and started snapping each other with towels.  In that case, she was more amused than anything else and will be telling her girlfriends all about it over lunch."

The best part of this story is the men involved.  Affluent, successful, retired, active, intellectually stimulating, caring, loyal, exemplary fellows.  Most have been married to amazing women for many decades.  The classic insight into their female counterparts came at the annual "tennis group" party our neighbors throw each year.  Drinks were flowing.  Conversation was popping.  Delicious food was piling up higher upon the table with each doorbell ring.  We're talking communion, not catering.  It was actually Ned's wife who spilled the beans about the calendar that the ladies' tennis group created about five years ago, inspired by the movie "Calendar Girls."  Need I say more.

That's all I had to hear to wander over to a group of men and suggest a matching project for the guys.  My man would definitely be Mr. March.  As my daughter so succinctly exclaimed the first day she saw him on a tennis court:  "Mom, he has amazing legs."  When I agreed that he was remarkably well-conditioned at age 75, she repeated:  "Who cares about his age?  Are you kidding?  Those are 24-year-old legs!"

Tough to believe, but none of the fellows seemed to know or remember that the women had audaciously posed for a "tastefully nude" calendar.  Several of the fellows even accused me of making the whole thing up.  Like I would issue such a challenge just to lure them out of their clothes in front of a flash bulb?  Oh please.  We all saw that episode of "Sex and The City" where Samantha is dating the "old guy."  She caught one glance at those sagging buns and literally ran away, clutching her newly acquired diamond jewelery and half her clothes.  And several of our tennis champs are pushing the envelope by just wearing shorts on the court.

But it seams that beauty seen through the eyes of love never fades, as I learned one evening when Bill and I joined several couples from the "tennis family" for dinner.  On one side of us sat Herb and Elena, who met at a dance in Manhattan just shortly after the Native Americans sold it to Peter Minuit.  These two have been married a long, long, long, long time.  Elena said that she whispered to her girlfriend the moment she caught sight of this handsome stranger, "That's the man I'm going to marry."  When I asked Herb if he felt that sense of instant recognition, he admitted to being "completely spellbound."  My romantic bones were tingling and I couldn't help but sigh:  "She must have been such a beauty!"

And then Herb, who never utters a serious syllable about any subject, said something I will never forget.  Particularly since he was sitting next to a wrinkled, aging woman with great bone structure and a regal aura but far past her prime in any sense of this world.

"She's a beauty right now."

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.

            

Dining out with my friend Ellen and her hubby David always means a night of live entertainment.  On this moonlit evening of glowing candles and flowing wine, David reached into the bag of stories about his Midwestern childhood and pulled out the most vividly memorable of them all:  his first encounter with sexuality.

Since you've never had the pleasure of meeting David, let's start by conjuring an image.  Visualize James Doohan, who played "Scott" on Star Trek, in his later silver-haired years.  Google him if need be.  Add a wry sense of humor, engaging warmth and exceptional artistic talent.  Architect by profession, David is an ingenious cartoonist and humorist.  Children gather to him like the Pied Piper, charmed by the "little boy" in his personality and his drawings of outrageously silly characters.  Here's a snapshot.  My rather shy daughters were only four and six years old when they first met Ellen and David.  Even though he was a relative stranger, they loved the idea of sharing their "way back" seat of the station wagon with him on the long trek to the picnic grounds.  Why did David choose the "turned around" seat?  Because it faced the window and he saw a chance to play the "gesturing game" with the girls.  Of course these were G-rated gestures like the peace symbol or just frenzied waves.  Before long, the car was filled with pealing bells of laughter.  Sometimes reactions from the people in the other cars set off the rounds of giggles, but most often it was David's hysterically funny comments.

In the story that David shared that night in the restaurant, he really was a little boy.  Just six years old.  The older woman in question was 11, known only to him as one of the neighborhood girls.  Nothing seemed off the beam about Jannie Yoder until the day she led him off to a secluded pine stand, dropped her panties, sat down to reveal her hidden jewels and told David to touch them.  Instantly, he knew there was no way he would touch anything that scary-looking.  Instead, he reached for the longest possible twig he could find.  Unfortunate choice for Jannie, considering that pines are notorious for rough bark.  After the briefest moment of twig-to-jewels contact, David's sense of horror far outweighed his innocent curiosity.  He ran home at warp speed, bursting into the living room where his mother was ironing clothes.  The confessional door was open and the penitent was beyond ready to pour out his heart and soul.

"Mamma!  I fucked Jannie Yoder!"  he blurted out in anguish.  Not that he knew what that unspeakable word meant, but surely this had to be it.

Ellen and I were unglued.  We were in danger of becoming a spectacle in an upscale restaurant.  Tears streamed down my face in the struggle to cover my howling mouth, hold my sides, and right myself in the chair all at the same time.  She was in worse shape.  It was obvious that Ellen had never heard the name Jannie Yoder before that night.

Like every great comedian, David understands the element of timing and waits for the gales to subside.  Or at least I thought he was waiting.  Pulling myself back together and wiping away the tears, I croaked out the question that anyone would have asked, "So what did your mother say?"  Most of us would be flashing back to images of bulging blood vessels on the foreheads of our parents the first and only time we dared to utter that darkly powerful but ever-so-confounding F-word.  Just those four little letters are enough to bring down an entire roof on a kid's head.

David's mother looked up, fixed her eyes on her small son, then turned her gaze back to the ironing board.  Not a single word.  Not so much as a wince.  Nothing.  We'll never know what she was thinking.  Maybe denial was preferable to even slightly cracking the lid of what could be Pandora's box.  We can only hope that little David translated that particular moment of silence as one of total absolution.

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.

One of my closest friends was telling me the other day about a bedroom episode she had with her husband.  Apparently, Kurt's libido had taken a nosedive.  Maybe work stress or the anti-depressants he'd been taking since the sudden death of his youthful boss.  Who knows why men lose interest in sex, although I must say I've only heard about these men.  I've never known any of them personally.  The cause of Kurt's malaise was uncertain but weeks had passed and Joanne was feeling the neglect.  She decided to take Buzz Aldrin to bed with them that night.  If Kurt wasn't in the mood to engage in a little marital bliss, it was time for him to meet the other man.  Outside chance that Kurt might be lured into a little threesome.  At the very least, he would have a clear idea of where things were with his wife. Smart lady. Lo and behold, Kurt found Buzz so surprising and arousing that he rose to the occasion with gusto.

Dear God, I love this woman.  Her moxie and shameless honesty never fail to shock and delight me.  My deepest innards are far too Catholic-damaged for me to pull a stunt like that with my mate, as intimately comfortable and relaxed as I would like to believe that I feel with him.  But there she was, warming up to have a great time with Buzz right in front of her husband's wide eyes.  I want you to meet someone, honey. 

Joanne is my SLL, shorthand for Spirit Lesbian Lover.  No, we aren't lesbians and we aren't lovers.  But someday in another lifetime, we plan to be ecstatically happily married.  She says we already have the perfect relationship because we know how to love each other freely and unconditionally, without the slightest hint of pressure or expectation.  Actually, Joanne has a lesbian sister and the two of them carry on at least a half-dozen brief phone chats every day.  They live in different states but they can tell you what  the other one ate for breakfast.  One of Karen's calls came in while I was visiting Joanne, who told her sister, "Maggy's here now and we're having so much fun.  If we had the right parts and pheromones to match, we'd be naked and rolling all over the floor by now."

When our marriage lifetime rolls around, it's a no-brainer that I'll be the hubby:  Joanne is ultra feminine and in many ways, I'm a guy with boobs.  Truly hate shopping, for one thing.  "This fits.  Give me three of them in different colors."  (Accessorize?  For what?)  Hate cooking but love eating.  No patience for gossip, drama, passive-aggressive tendencies or subtleties.  Genuinely appreciate male candor and directness.  Would rather be pushing myself to keep up with the boys in sports or outdoor activities than dumb down my pace for some whining female companion.  I know, I know, these are all sexist stereotypes but trust me when I say my masculine side is ridiculously dominant.

My SLL is just the opposite:  Majored in home economics in college. Taught cooking classes.  Authored books on healthy eating and microwave cooking.  She even traveled the nation as the Pillsbury spokesperson on television and radio shows.  Her master bedroom has at least three deep shelves covered with perfume bottles.  She not only bothers to wear jewelry each day but plays with and tries on her favorite pieces for pure joy.  The attic, garage, and storage unit are bulging over with seasonal, theme, and festive decorations.  Kurt revels in the beauty and creature comforts of their home, but the man can squeeze the buffalo off a nickel and had to learn the tough way to give his wife's kite plenty of string.  They were shopping together shortly after they got married and she reached for a fluted vase.  He countered with, "Do you really think you need that?"  Her firm, instant response delivered straight into his eyes was, "Yes, I certainly do need this."  "In fact," she said as she reached toward the shelf, "I need two of them!"  Joanne is the hostess who buys gifts for each guest at her dazzling table and carves the watermelon into a whale's shape for the salad bowl.  I'm all about paper plates and burned buns.  More than any woman in my life, Joanne has given me Lady Lessons.  Her sensitive eye for the beauty in nature, life, people, and relationships never ceases to water my withered feminine flower.

And so it was with Buzz Aldrin.  Joanne was floored that I was "pushing 60" and never once purchased a man of my own, particularly when she's been married forever and I've crawled across interminable stretches of the Celibacy Desert.  Still, I had no inkling that I might be the only one on the planet who missed that cue when I related the Buzz scenario to my dental hygienist the next week.  Jolie expects nothing less than outrageous stories when I'm in her chair and I considered this one a humdinger.  After composing herself to the point where she could speak again, Jolie hollered for the front-office staff to come over and listen to an encore performance.  Oddly, the male dentists had yet to arrive and the waiting room was entirely empty. Just us girls.  That's when I found out about Rocket, so named because he takes Patsy to the moon.  And Bob, Mary's battery operated boyfriend.  No hesitation, no embarrassment.  I know that's not what Gloria had in mind for Women's Lib but it felt wildly freeing to watch these ladies light up and share.

The very next day I wandered into a Fascinations shop, the kind of place my mind always associated with perversion and porn.  What did I know anyway?  I must say the shop is aptly named.  These pleasure enhancers come in more sizes, colors and textures and have more scintillating names and options for bells and whistles than I could ever have imagined.  An entire wall of them from floor to ceiling, and of course that was only one small section in a sprawling store crammed full of bobbles and toys.  Each one of the three employees working the floor eventually wandered up to me in the hour-plus I was transfixed in dumbfounded amazement, picking up an occasional package to read the fine print.  I said the same thing to them all: "No thanks, I don't need any help.  I'm just being fascinated."  By the way, my favorite was the Tantric Tongue, which I picked up for my SLL.  I could already hear the microburst of her laughter at the moment she unwrapped the package.  Now that's what I call accessorizing.

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.