Julia Roberts

I love Julia. My adoration dates back to "Mystic Pizza," a bad movie from the 80's when dear Julia still had an ass and not much of a career.

To me, she was the personification of limitless beauty.

Probably my favorite of Ms. Roberts' movies is "My Best Friend's Wedding." It reminds me of a very happy time in my life, when my best friend was falling in love and preparing for his own wedding. Which, for the record, I did not try to sabotage.

Anyhoo, my point is ... she has this line in the movie that sticks in my brain. She's trying to point out how she's different, not the same girl she once was, and she says:

"I've got moves you've never seen."

And so I was thinking tonight, in the middle of hip-hop class at the gym (yes, and stop laughing now, I am taking hip-hop and I love it) "I've got moves I'VE never seen!"

I'll never dance like the teeny-boppers in class, with their lithe little bodies that do exactly what they tell them to do. No, alas ... I have parts that don't even stop on their own. But I'm having a ball, and tonight I actually felt like I was dancing! And with each pound that exits this body, the dancing becomes easier. The new me continues to emerge.

I spent a lot of today feeling kinda crappy - dowdy, unattractive and a little bit pathetic. But after an hour of dancing, having a dear friend tell me he could tell I was losing weight (did you find the blog, John?) and a long soak in the hot tub, I came to the realization that the gym was exactly where I belonged tonight.

It's good to belong. And to have moves!

Man. Dolin.

According to the American Heritage Dictionary:
man·do·lin (mān'də-lĭn', mān'dl-ĭn) n. A small lutelike instrument with a typically pear-shaped body and a straight fretted neck, having usually four sets of paired strings tuned in unison or octaves.

According to Maggie:
man·do·lin (mān'də-lĭn', mān'dl-ĭn) n. A small lutelike instrument used to drive a Maggie crazy with musically inspired passion.

There's something about it - the way it's held, the way it's strummed, the way it sounds ... hell, I dunno. But give me a man who can play the mandolin and I'll follow him anywhere.

Especially if he cooks.

Can't fix it

Sometimes, even being the best daughter, sister, friend, aunt or combination of all the above isn't enough to fix stuff.

Being the best daughter doesn't make Dad's heart any lighter when he's missing mom. Being the best friend can't allow me to be in four places at once, like I wanted to be this weekend. Being the best aunt doesn't mean I can heal the hurts of the young people who fill my soul with fulfillment even while they cope with a world of issues. Being the best sister doesn't keep me from sometimes saying the wrong thing, or the right thing in the wrong way, or from not saying what needs to be said.

Sometimes, it has to be enough to want to be able to do those things. Sometimes, everything I have won't fix it, and I can only hope it helps to know that I care, and that I would make everything right if I could.

Sometimes, you just have to keep slogging through life like you're swimming in chocolate pudding. And if that's the case, I recommend doing it with your mouth open.

I'll be right there

I can remember one night when my car got pissed and just called it quits. It was three, maybe four years ago, I don't know which month but I know it was cold. I was on my way home from a long day at work, and on Ogden Ave., maybe three miles from home, the Jeep just gave up the ghost. I was able to get it off the road and out of traffic. Then I panicked.

I do not deal with this kinda stuff very well. I just like stuff to work the way it's supposed to, so I don't have to worry about it. Too much to ask? I think not. And when it doesn't, I like to have help. I don't need someone to fix it, but I do need a little support.

So I called Christopher. Who asked me why I hadn't just called Triple A.

This is not the preferred response. You know, just in case you were wondering.

Turned out I'd run out of gas. My gas gauge is shot, so while it was registering a quarter tank, there was nothing but fumes running the show. I learned this from the kind gentleman from Triple A who eventually came to my aid. Christopher showed up, too, none to happy about it, but to his credit, he was there. Under duress, I might add.

So I've been thinking ... what separates family from acquaintances, in my life, anyway, is their responses to those kind of phone calls. I call Brian when Christopher starts moving his stuff, and his response? "I'll be right there." I call Marge when Christopher is pissed at me for talking to Judy the Ho? "I'll be right there." I call Kelly when I lock my keys in the car in Highland Park? "I'm about two hours away, but I can make the trip if you need me." I won't even bore you with the details of how many times my dad has bailed me out, figuratively and damn near literally. And there are many, many more examples of "I'll be right there." Even the people who live a flight or two away do their damnedest to be present in some way - a Starbuck's care package or regular phone calls when the chips are down.

I hope I offer the same to the people I love. I know that I've tried. And I know with everything that I am that I will never again settle into a routine with anyone - be they friend, family or romantic interest - whose first response is anything other than "I'll be right there."

In a perfect world, they'd be there with tissues, tequila and a turkey sandwich.

I need longer arms

Do you have any idea how hard it is to take a picture of one's own ass with a camera phone? Today, I am wearing the cute jeans. The jeans that, two weeks ago, could not be trusted not to burst at the seams if I attempted anything remotely calistenic. Like sitting down.

Sorry I can't accurately photograph them, and allow you to relish the glory that is the cute jeans. Butt here's proof, however blurry it may be. Pun intended.

The cute jeans, or at least one blurry cheek's worth.

Dinner, 33% better

Tonight, I had a most delightful dinner. My post-dinner activities weren't quite so hunky-dorey, but dinner?

Perfection.

Patrick and I walked down to Fuego, just a few blocks from Chez Mags. Fuego was participating in Dining Out for Life, an annual night of awareness during which restaurants donate a portion of their profits to AIDS research. 33 percent, to be exact.

We enjoyed our food about 33 percent more than usual.

The margarita? Fantastic. The guacamole, prepared tableside? Breathtaking. And I completely enjoyed Camarones a la Diabla - shrimp as big as my head, sauteed with peppers and spices and lots of love. Seriously, ohmyfreakingod.

After dinner, we walked to Jewel (I needed kitty litter and vinegar) and on the way home, we took a path that led nowhere. We wound our way home via the scenic route, and it was like finding a secret garden.

And then, I got home. I poured the vinegar combined with water into my coffee maker, because it has been making crap coffee lately. Then I went about my other chores.

Let me just say, it's a damn good thing I had enjoyed a margarita earlier, otherwise I probably would've flipped out when I realized the coffee maker was spewing a coffee douche all over my kitchen.

I forgot to put in the filter holder thingy, so it didn't know to put the liquid into the pot. Instead, it ended up in the cat dishes, on my antique juicer collection, and over the entire kitchen floor. Plus, it smelled like a deli direct from hell.

But it's clean now. And even the burps from dinner are delicious, so you'll get no complaints from me.

72 Days

There are only 72 days until I get to see the Tucson Contingent again.

They left this morning. I started missing them the moment they drove away.

I love that my slippers match Kaylee's pajamas. I love that Mike and Rae get a good night's sleep in my bed. I love Kaylee's special way of stirring muffin batter, the way she really wants to love the cats, and how she entertains herself with my jumbo knitting needles (which, to her vivid imagination, become pencils or drumsticks.) I love that last night together, when Kaylee's asleep and we're not quite ready to let go yet, so Mike, Rae and I curl up in the living room and the conversation just flows. I love that they don't care if the chicken is dry. I love the way my little downtown apartment feels like a home when it's full of friends. I love that they e-mail me from the airport. I love that Rae has no idea how beautiful she is. I love that Mike looks handsome (yes, you have it in writing) in a purple shirt. I love how at home they are in my home.

I hate when it's time for them to go.

I love that they'll be back in 72 days.

Second Chances

Do we ever run out of second chances in life? From the people who really matter, I think the answer has to be "no." I'm on my third or fourth chance with some, and lost count with others, but when the love is alive, the number doesn't so much matter.

One of the most gratifying experiences in my adult life has been observing those I love as they embrace their second chances. Seeing my nephew heal the pain in his young soul, having experienced more heartache than anyone should have to endure at his age. Supporting a friend as she and her husband give their all to have a child, and to finally make it to the second trimester after painful failed attempts. And yes, watching my CharlieDad get a second chance at love. It's a rare gift to be allowed to be in attendance at the wedding of a parent, whether natural or adoptive, and being part of yet another Rice family wedding was a magical celebration of second chances.

Do we all get a second chance at love? I'm not sure about that. I'm even more unsure that I want one. I mean, let's face it - the first chance really turned into quite the debacle. But to see the joy, and be part of it, is extraordinary, and brings peace to my heart.

All will be well
Even after all the promises
you've broken to yourself
All will be well
You can ask me how, but only time will tell
- Gabe Dixon

Okay, so THAT was a weird day

Worked until 4:30, then got in my car to go to the gym. My emotions are close to the surface, what with the whole dead mom thing, but I'm listening to some good music and I'm almost at the gym when

BAM

I'm rear-ended.

My first thought is, "God cannot be telling me not to work out." My second thought is, "I sure am glad my insurance is paid up."

Then I get out of the car to survey the damage. Except there is none. At least not on the Jeep. Her car, on the other hand, looks like it has an accordion for a hood.

We exchange information and head out on our merry way. No harm, no foul, as far as I'm concerned, and I know how to reach her, in case something comes to light at some future time as a result of taking it in the rear.

Pun intended.

Anyhoo, so I head to the gym, and I make it in time to take the Hip-Hop Cardio class.

Consider my ass kicked. Seriously, nothing like an aging white woman with questionable rhythm trying to keep up with a bunch of 18-year-olds. But did I care? Nope. Because it was fun, and Sharon's an awesome instructor, and dammit, nothing's gonna get between me and my good time.

Except maybe the fact that I twisted the hell out of my knee. My bad knee. The one that hurts really bad right now? Yeah, that'd be the one. But I made it through, and danced anyway.

After class, I caught up with John, my friend from the water circuit class who also does the dance cardio classes. We had a great talk, and he sort of big brothered me - make sure you replace the calories you burned, etc. Then I passed Sharon, the instructor, in the hall, and I thanked her for a great class. She is an amazing woman, able to make every student in her class feel like the most important person she will talk to the entire day. It's a gift, and it's just who she is. She gave me a hug - a big, sweaty hug - and told me I was an angel to her.

Enter tears.

The whole story came pouring out of me - losing Mom four years ago, losing Christopher two years ago, losing my mind not long after that. In the middle of this, John came out of the locker room and found the two of us in tears in the hall, and next thing you know he's crying, too, and we're just this trio of lunatics hanging out by the basketball courts crying and laughing and trying not to cause a scene.

And on the way home, it began to hit me. (Not quite as dramatically as the Dodge Stratus hit me on the way to the gym, mind you.) This person I'm becoming takes better care of herself, but connects with people the same way she always has. She still has heart-to-heart talks, they just happen on the treadmill or in the hall by the basketball court as often as they do in the kitchen or snuggled on the sofa. I'm letting go of the crap, and I'm keeping the good stuff.

I'm glad you are part of the good stuff.

Glenn strikes again

Every year on this day, my father sends his daughters flowers. It's his way of making us smile on the anniversary of the day we lost Mom. Of course we cry first, then we smile.

At any rate, this is one of those moments that makes me stop and think of Mom, reflect on the good stuff (the way her whale tail necklace always ended up in her soup) instead of the bad (why did she leave before all my questions could be answered?) I don't have my mother up on a perfect pedastal, but I do appreciate who she was and what I learned from her. Such as:

• Add 50 percent more chocolate chips to the recipe. More chocolate never hurts.
• Sometimes family gatherings are best handled after a glass or two of wine.
• A little black dress is always appropriate.
• You can tell a lot about people by the company they keep.
• Eat something before church.
• What hurts in the moment will be funny eventually.
• Music makes the hard times bearable.
• Take care of your car and it will take care of you.
• Take care of all that you value - the people and the things. Your friends, your cookware and your black suit can last you a lifetime.
• Superstitions only count when the Bears or Cubs are involved.
• Great legs are your birthright.
• There is no need to fish; Mrs. Paul and the Gorton's guy do it for you.
• Moisturize, moisturize, moisturize.
• Don't go to bed angry.
• If you must ask "Why me?" when things are bad, you must also be willing to ask "Why me?" when things are good. It's much more effective to just approach life asking "Why not me?"
• You can fit an infinite number of people around a round table.
• Take vacations, even if you don't go far.
• Be willing to be silly. You'll probably never see these people again, anyway.
• Hats feel better than wigs.
• You're never too old to learn.

Thanks, Mom. You never fail to make me smile.

My Dad, special correspondent to the Blog

I received this from my father just now. As of tomorrow, we will have been without Mom for four years. Turns out, time flies whether you're having fun or not! I wanted to share a bit of Dad's wisdom with you:

Hello My Favorite Daughters,

Another year gone by, and after four years it is still hard for me to acknowledge the loss of your mom and Alex's grandmother. I can still see her many years ago, helping me nail down the sub-flooring when we built the house. She was far more than a wife, far more than I deserved. I am reminded of that song, "There is None Like You." Our Pat was a unique woman and there
is none like her.

If we could ask her, "what do you expect of us?", she would probably say something very simple, like

• Live your life to the fullest
• Be kind to other people
• Do the very best you can at your profession or job
• Love God with all your heart
• Take care of each other
• Make your life count

It really isn't that difficult to do. I surely try but often fail, yet I know that with my last breath I will say something positive rather than negative.

No one but God knows how many days we have on this earth, but I think that God calls us to be who He asks us to be. Yes, we will fail, but He is always there to pick us up and dust us off and shower us with His Love and Grace as He restores us to His own.

So, thanks for being my daughters. Know that I love each of you, and that each of you is my favorite.

Love,
Dad

Taunt

The universe is taunting me.

Right now, it's sunny outside. PSYCHE! It's also colder than a well-digger's ass in the Yukon. Well, maybe not THAT cold, but dammit, man, it's April! I should be reveling in consistent 50+ temperatures with the occasional surprise of a 70-degree day. Instead, I am shivering in consistent 40-degree days with the occasional surprise of the big five-oh on the thermometer.

And you know what? I was a good sport all damn summer long. I'M DONE NOW!!!

The sky is blue, and yet it snowed this morning.

Taunt. Taunt taunt. TAUNT!

Damned universe.

Return from hiatus

I am in Wisconsin right now.

I haven't been here in eight weeks. That's 56 weeks, in dog weeks.

Not much has changed up here. The music is still good. The men are still stupid. My friends are still awesome.

My favorite part of the night was when I went up to sing Banditos, and two guys I'd never seen before started singing along, and most of my friends got up to dance. Who would've thought that this one little song would come to personify "us." It was awesome.

But perhaps not as awesome as Tim in his coat. Or Amy singing Evanescence. Or Kim's pictures from Tennessee. Or Amber's undeniable Amberness. Or Kelly dancing with me to "When the Sun Goes Down" while Angel sang. Or Kendall. Sheesh, Kendall. Or Dale and Tim's duet at the end of the night.

Or just plain being back in the place that brought me back to life when I didn't know if that was even possible.

No, I can't do it every week. It's just too expensive to drive here. And I love having my weekends to myself, to take care of me and just be. But every once in awhile, like tonight, it's gratifying to come home again, to be with "my people," and soak up the love.

A happy Friday in Maggie's World

It's been a busy week. I've been at the gym, cleaning my place (yay, new vaccuum!), working and trying to find time in between for sleep and some semblance of social life.

So far, so good.

Tried some new stuff at the gym this week. Added more weight training (some day I hope to be able to kick my own ass) and ran (yes, ran) for a few minutes on the treadmill. The body is changing! My loaf of French bread - you know the one, it's above my waistline - is decidedly smaller. I'm getting closer every day to having only one chin. And along the way, I'm feeling strong and feminine at the same time.

As of this morning, I have lost a total of 19 pounds since I started going to the gym last September. The bulk of the loss has come in the last two months, and I have to admit feeling pretty proud of myself for the lifestyle change I have made. Plus, this morning, I put on the cute jeans, and I could actually zip them! That's not to say that they fit - we all know there's a difference between getting them on and looking good in them. But in a few weeks, I'll be workin' the jeans!

So this weekend will be a mix of celebration (dancing, diet coke and perhaps a touch of tequila,) chores (laundry at Amber's) and taking care of me (back to the gym on Sunday.) It's gonna be a good weekend. But then, why wouldn't it be?

It's a good life.

Someone told me today ...

"It's never too late to live happily ever after."

Can it be?

The sun is out today. Is it possible that after what seems like an entire year of winter, spring is finally here?

It's beautiful. The sky is blue - that amazing, clear cornflower blue, without a cloud in the sky. Ahh ... April in Chicagoland. It's a happy Saturday in Maggie's World.

Went to the gym today, and got to thinkin' about how different my relationship with all things gym-related is now than it was in the beginning. Back in the early days, I was quiet (yes, it's true, there are witnesses) and spent most of my time trying to be invisible. I brought my own towel, because the ones they provide can't wrap all the way around me. I didn't like to use the machines at the front, because they were ... well, in the front!

It's not like I've magically transformed my body, yet. It's only seven pounds smaller than it was when the journey began. But I'm different. I feel more confident, and I care a whole lot less. Prance through the locker room in a little towel? Why not. Stand in the front of the Salsa/Funk class? That's me. And in the process, I've gotten to know the staff at the gym, in the spa, and in the cafe.

I have "people"! And my trips to the gym are less about everyone else and a whole lot more about me.

And, yes, seven pounds total. The first seven of many, I assure you.

A happy memory

Music triggers my memory more than just about anything. My ex and I had an entire soundtrack to our courtship. I remember what was playing on the bus to drama competition in 1984 when we should've won. I remember what we danced to when we snuck Kelly into the Baja Beach Club. I remember the hymn we sang the Sunday the dog died. It's just all about the music.

Right now, in my happy little cubicle, I'm listening to Elton John's "Someone Saved my Life Tonight" and I'm transported back to age 15 ...

It was my cousin Theresa's wedding reception. The whole family went. Those who know me really well will not be surprised that I remember I was wearing a brown cowl neck sweater, plaid wool skirt, and cowboy boots. The DJ started to play, and I heared the opening strains of that song, and I must have smiled or something, because the sweetest, kindest man walked up to me, offered his hand, and asked me to dance.

Ron Mosca was his name. I don't know if I spelled it right, but that was him. He opened his arms and welcomed me into this sort of protective embrace that made my heart sing. He was older than me - much older - but in my whole life I don't know if anyone has ever made me feel that special. He was an old friend of the family - Theresa's family, anyway - and no one thought it was weird that he spent several songs paying attention to an awkward teenager. He was just being kind, and it's something I will never forget.

It was my first slow dance ever, the dance against which every other dance has been measured, and not quite compared.

When the dance was over, he walked me back to the table, kissed my hand, and went to dance with several more age-appropriate women. But throughout the evening, from time to time, he and I danced. It makes my eyes well up just thinking about the sweetness of it all.

Our paths never crossed again, but for that one night, I had hope that one day someone would offer me his hand, and dance through life with me.

Thank you, Ron. Turns out, butterflies really are free to fly.

Overworked and in need of vacation

I know what you're thinking. "Mags, you just went on vacation a couple of months ago." And you'd be right - I had my fancy week in Disney World, and that SHOULD be enough to carry a girl through. But if you've kept up with the weather report from my part of the world, you know that here in Chicagoland we've been living under a gray cloud or several inches of snow or a combo of the two since about November. It's starting to thaw. I'm starting to get cabin fever. And I need a vacation.

Couple that with the fact that work's sorta kicking into high gear. The newsletter has become a magazine. A monthly magazine. For which I am the only writer. And I still have all the other "stuff" to write. To say I'm not bored is truly an understatement.

In other news, why does it not hurt the cat when he licks his ... you know ... with that sandpaper kitty tongue of his?

But back to me ... what should I do for vacation this year? I know! I think I'll tag along with one of my surrogate families for a week at the beach in South Haven, Michigan. The guest list is perfect - one person to make me laugh, another to make me laugh so hard a beverage comes out my nose. One to make chicken pizza, one to make breakfast gravy. One to look cute in a bathing suit (because she's only one year old) and another to remind me that it doesn't matter that I don't look cute in mine. One to kick my ass at Uno, and me. For a full week at the beach in July.

Sounds like heaven to me. I'll send you a postcard!