Welcome to Maggy's World

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.