Welcome to Maggy's World

Dear Loved Ones, 

A holiday letter on the actual holiday?  What gives?  As usual with gypsy souls, some of us have a new address.  Lizzy landed a dream graduate program offer from the University of Oregon, so she’s now in Eugene.  Before that, she was house-sitting in Flagstaff and completing a Spanish Immersion program.  She invited me to take her place at the house while her class took a two-week trip to Mexico, enticing me by calling it a Writer’s Retreat.  Which sounded so idyllic, so relaxing, so inspiring—until I arrived at the doorstep of Noah’s Ark:  two large emotionally needy dogs, one indoor cat on prescription tranquilizers, an outdoor cat with a garage litterbox, a pacman toad, a hamster and a small aquarium. 

The first near-death experience was the toad, which lapsed into a three-day catatonic stupor from gorging on crickets.  The hamster went missing before Lizzy ever left, presumably a food chain casualty or electrocuted in the dryer, where it chewed through the wiring.  A week later, scratching noises gave it away as still holed up in the dryer, surviving on midnight dog-food raids.  After the third round of daring escapes, tedious dryer tear-downs, rescues and mounting repair bills, I was ready to ask the cat for a few tranquilizers.  But we had yet to hit rock bottom.  The older of the two dogs, not the sharpest tack in the box, decided to toy with a rattle snake and landed in the hospital.  In spite of a miraculous recovery, he fell gravely ill just days before the family was expected home and the vet declared that he was dying—of cancer.  Lizzy played the Angel of Mercy as he slipped peacefully away, but not before she honored the family’s plea for a laptop Skype session where everyone sobbed wrenching goodbyes to their beloved pet for a full 10 minutes. 

At this point the family needed a perfect homecoming, so Katie and I headed for Flagstaff to lend Lizzy a hand with the final cage cleanings, litter boxes, yard poo pickup, you name it.   Hours before the family was scheduled to board their international flight for home, Katie rushed downstairs with a seizing, gasping hamster cupped in her hands.  We were considering a mercy killing when Mother Nature stepped in just as the radio began to play Bob Dylan’s rendition of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”  Someone up there has a twisted sense of humor. Imagine our dread at breaking yet another piece of tragic news.  The mother shot back an email saying this was simply TOO MUCH for her little girl to bear and the hamster could NOT be dead. 

We HAD to find a believable replacement.   This was not a point of negotiation.  What?  She expects us to find a fully grown, specific color and breed in 24 hours?  Against all odds, Katie found a close match in Phoenix and so began the race against time.  The store had not one but three of them to choose from:  young but large enough for our ridiculous ruse.  Imagine our shock when they were all males with super-sized testicles.  Katie came up with the brilliant strategy to explain them as benign tumors—launching into a parody of Arnold Schwarzenegger in defense of his bulging muscle in Kindergarten Cop:  It’s NOT a toomah!   The visual of a rodent defending the dignity of his balls sent me into uncontrollable, laughing-hyena-style hysteria right in the middle of Pet Smart. 

As you may have guessed, Katie is no longer in Boston but has returned to the friends and family, enchanting winters, brutal summers, and reasonable rent that she left behind.  She’s now working for Vanguard, still involved in the financial sector with a large company that offers international placement potential.  In between Massachusetts and Arizona, she spent several weeks with her sister Angie and family in Ohio.  Had Angie and Jim managed to win the lotto, Katie’s first employment choice would have been nanny to her precious nephews.  The entire family is over the moon about those babies. 

On July 18 the Haprian family welcomed Emmett Alan, a whopping 9 pounds and 15 ounces of snuggly, cuddly cherub.  At the post-birth gathering of Angie’s Centering Group, they arranged the newborns in a circle for a group photo.  Emmett looked like Gulliver in the Land of the Lilliputians.  Dominic turned two this November, emerging as a curious explorer, a spirited chatterbox and a wildly avid Snoopy fan.  I meet a new Dominic with each trip to Ohio, so every visit holds its own magic.  This time around, I was grateful to be known as Gramma Swing in honor of our playground adventure instead of Gramma Oatmeal for Brains.  After waiting patiently in his stroller and watching while I repeatedly tried to mate two identical clasps, he finally bent down, reached between his legs and held up the missing connector.  My exasperated scream of “Oh SHOOT!” made him toss back his head and laugh so hard that it became our private battle cry.  Bolting upright in glee, his echo was “Oh YOOT!”  (Consonants kick in later.) 

Bill and I have enjoyed another happy, peaceful year filled with simple pleasures and shared adventures, from a week in the high Rockies to forays into personal growth.  We took a class called Radical Honesty where everyone wrote down their darkest secrets then paired off with a stranger for one-on-one sharing.   I jumped right in, ticking off my entire litany of sins like a drunk in the confessional.  My partner was obviously gay, so I was primed for any and all disclosures, but he had but one shame:  He’s been a member of Unity Church for three years and can’t bear to tell his Catholic mother.  That’s it?  I’m sitting here emotionally naked and his big deal is being afraid to tell his mommy where he goes to church?  I wanted to crawl under the chair and ask him to at least hand over my bra and panties. 

Wishing one and all a most blessed holiday and the brightest of New Years!  We’re still here in Arizona, officially the Hate State.  You provide the mean-spirited prejudice and we’ll draft the legislation!

 

 

May 15, 2009 (aka Decemberish 2008)

Dear loved ones near and far,

To quote Mark Twain: The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.  Pretend you are receiving this letter in mid December of 2008.  Most of us were ready to kick the old year right in into the grave on New Year’s Eve, so how is 2009 shaping up so far?  Right out of the chute, we witnessed several everyday miracles:  Sully’s dramatic landing on the Hudson River, the inauguration of Barrack Hussein Obama—and the Arizona Cardinals at the Super Bowl.

For our family, the miracles actually began on November 9, 2008, with the birth of Dominic James Haprian.   Katie spent Thanksgiving with Angie, Jim and her newborn nephew, fell hopelessly in love and stayed for three weeks.   Which I’m sure her sister appreciated.   Nothing quite like another pair of willing hands when you’re feeling that new-mother exhaustion, nursing every 90 minutes and trying to eek out time to sleep, shower, dress, brush your teeth—or eat.  That’s when I started living in a robe and stopped shaving my legs or wearing makeup.

The Haprian family braved a cross-country trip to sunny Arizona this April but Murphy had a field day.  Shortly after his arrival, Dominic fell to a snotty-nose virus that left him congested, bewildered and cranky.  By trip’s end, the cherub was recovering but the adults were dropping like flies.  Angie’s eardrum burst on the flight home and the rest of us were listening to each other from the bottom of a swimming pool.  What?  Huh?  Grammy M was just grateful for so many hours of “comforting Dominic” and Aunt Lizzy was ecstatic to hold him for the very first time.  We’re hoping to coax the Haprian family back onto an airplane again sometime in the first half of the 21^st century…even if they have to wear surgical masks to ward off the latest pandemic.  Oh PLEEEEZE, don’t get me started on our alarmist, terrorizing media.

Another 2008 milestone was Katie’s graduation from the University of Wisconsin with a Master’s in International Public Affairs.  The majestic State Capitol building hosted the regal ceremony, followed by a reception at the elite Madison Club.  The event plans were all hers, as she had no intention of leaving that moment of glory in less capable hands.  After a lingering sabbatical in Phoenix and a “test the waters” autumn stay with friends in South Hadley, MA, she bit the bullet in January and moved willy-nilly into “the city” for a last-gamble attempt to land a job and start a life.  Which she did, God bless her brave little soul.  She stood right in the middle of Boston Common and tossed her hat in the air.  (An image that will only make the older readers smile!)  As of today, Katie is gainfully employed by the Macquarie Group, an international company with a stellar record of profitability and lots of executives with Australian accents.  She’s already disillusioned with Corporate America, which is perfect.  Nothing less would fuel this kid’s rocket into the stars.  Discontent is a wondrous catalyst until the breeze catches your inner fire of desire and you end up dancing freely in the sun of your own highest purpose.  Or until you get married and have babies, whichever comes first.

And speaking of breezes, there’s Lizzy.  Those of us close to her thought she would be finalizing her master’s program at Keele University in England at this time—but nay, she returned to Flagstaff following an extensive tour of Europe and East Europe last summer.  Blame it on snafus with her student visa.  But I must say that the two of us enjoyed a brief send-off tour of San Francisco that was hysterically memorable, crowned by a desperate search for a public restroom.  To avoid yet another cup of tea at some tiny café, we ducked into a Holiday Inn along the route of our accidental walking tour through Marginal Neighborhoods. My admonition to “act like you are staying here” was ludicrous as it turned out.  Once in the restroom (thankfully adjacent to the elevators, where we headed to “fake” our guest status), I spoke loudly and freely, as I am prone to do.  “Oh my God, Lizzy,” I said from my stall.  “We are the only non-Asians in this entire hotel...did you feel the breeze from all the heads that turned in the lobby?”  But I didn’t stop there. Oh no, I had to comment on the facilities.  “Can you believe the force of the backwash in these toilets?  They could sell as bidets in Europe.”   Lizzy’s silence was my first clue that something was amiss.  Upon emerging, I found her crumpled over in embarrassed laughter, trying to catch her breath long enough to inform me “we had not been alone.”  For more than one reason, I wanted to crawl out a window, find a fire escape or just stay in the bathroom for a couple of hours.  But Lizzy quickly morphed into “the adult” and told me to get a grip:  “We’re walking out the same way we came in.  Now let’s go.”

At the moment, Lizzy is back on South Fountaine Street, the one where the lawn ornaments are rusted water heaters and the ice cream truck doesn’t sell ice cream.  She even returned to the little hovel they named Crackle Rock.  (I’m only guessing that to be a blend of Fraggle Rock with the nickname for her neighborhood—Crack Street.  Always music to a mother’s ears.)   Lizzy would love to move up in the world—or at least to another street— but the rent is low.  As well it should be.  As for gainful employment, the only doors that flung wide open have had babies and children on the other side.  She’s juggling jobs like nanny, babysitter and a counselor in a program for abused children.  You have to know Lizzy’s anti-kid history to really appreciate the irony.  Over the holidays, Katie and I were with her in a grocery line and Lizzy pointed out a cute baby.  I turned to Katie and said, “If you check the Weather Channel when we get home, I’m sure you’ll find that hell just froze over.”

Some of you out there might wonder why I haven’t already published a book and made earth-shattering breakthroughs in a creative writing career.  After all, she’s been sitting on her duff in North Scottsdale for nearly two years now.  What’s the hold up?  Ah the angst of a blocked creative.  Or as Linus would say, “No burden is heavier than great potential.”  The good news is that domestic bliss continues.  His-and-her family pictures are scattered around the place.  We’ve learned a great deal more about what drives each other nuts—always helpful in close relationships.  Our competitive natures still draw us into light-hearted clashes that make us break into laughter most of the time.  Bill’s knee replacement surgery last February was a killer for both of us. You might say he had a rough go of it.  The afternoon of the first home therapist’s visit, I had yet to brush my teeth, comb my hair, get dressed or eat a bite of food.  Neither one of us was getting any sleep.  When the doorbell rang, I welcomed her to the Cuckoo’s Nest and introduced myself as Nurse Ratched.  As she was leaving, I tugged on her sleeve and said, “Can I go home with you?”  These days are much brighter.  To ensure stellar results, Bill needed to find enough extra weight to push the knee backward to a full extension.  So I offered my thighs and rear end.  Every day we get on the floor and I literally kneel on his leg for the big push down while Bill turns purple and moans.  (Where’s that black leather bikini and a little whip to crack over his head?)

Here’s hoping you receive another “holiday letter” from this address sometime before 2010.  God only knows what events and changes will be afoot by then!  Keep the faith, hold peace in your hearts, and remember this tidbit of inspiration in tough times:  Only move in with your relatives if it’s absolutely, completely necessary!

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
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