Three Cheers for Chickens!

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     Some women window-shop online to kill time.

      I browse (and craigslist).  The bird ads.

       Have I ever told you how much I love chickens…?  Because I do!  I think chickens are awesome creatures.  What is not to love about chickens?  Consider how gnarly they look!

Look at this awesome chicken!  Adopt him if you can.  His face!  His feet!  His nifty tail! 
This is a beautiful chicken.  See how perfect his feathers are. 

      They look fantastical.  They look monstrous.  Gorgeous. Look at those faces.  Tell me it isn’t true.  

       They also do everything right.  They are predictable.  They are docile.  They are delicious (is that obscene?).  The babies are so cute to look at that I wish I had a baby chick on my desk with me right now!  

     And they come from eggs.  How cool is that?  

      I love chickens!

The Intimacy is So Ephemeral

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   The last few days have been pretty turbulent.  

     I was hired by an awesome fellow who, interestingly, actually seemed to give a damn about my life.  It was surprising, for me.  But fun.  We talked and talked like birds in a tree.

      I also fell off the wagon.  Yes, yes I did!  Have no fear; I climbed back on the horse first thing in the morning and have been booze-free  ever since.  Hell, I just fed more cookies to crispy burnout alcoholics.  I need to examine why I did this–without a doubt–but I am not going to torture myself over it.  7 days drinking in almost 10 months…?  Progress, not perfection.  

      Out by July, Out by July.  Writing and research (or even flipping burgers), not sadomasochism.  

       Today I consented to be used again.  I was ridden very hard. 

        The intimacy is so ephemeral.

Letters, I Get Letters!

    On a happier note, I went to a meeting and I have two students tomorrow (normal!) who are going to pay me in cash and a booking this evening with a very nice nerdy guy who wants to listen to opera with me.  Sure, why not?  

     Speaking of students and bookings, let me tell you about the letters I get.  Boy oh boy, do they get interesting!  They are an endless source of fascination for me.  

      Here, for your entertainment and mine, gentle reader, I will share one of the best letters I’ve received in the past few months.  Actually–I’ll post the entire exchange.  It really is that good, and context is everything.

     (I know it is not very nice to publish this, but if I leave out all identifying information, it won’t hurt anybody, right…?)

      To begin:  Man calls me to inquire about an appointment.  It must have been a casual, uneventful conversation, because I have no memory of it whatsoever.  If he was frightening or offensive or markedly unusual, I would have made note of it.  There was nothing–nothing!–in his conversation that hinted at what was to come.

MISS MARGO (via email)
Hi, I just called you.  We chatted for 20 minutes.  

How are you?  
Call or write if you’d like to set up an appointment!
ANONYMOUS MAN (via email, 48 hours later)
In truth, I am not well.

In my inability to sleep, I have arrived at some startling conclusions (though in truth, I was already aware of most of these).

1. I am severely depressed.
2. I am obscenely shy.
3. I have been severely depressed for, hmm…let’s ballpark it at eight years.
4. The fact that I have these issues within themselves is a great source of shame.
5. Depression and anxiety have impeded my personal and professional success.
6. As a result of lack of fulfillment both personally and professionally, there is more shame.
7. This shame from the shame seems to have evolved into the fetishes we discussed on the phone yesterday.
8. And as I mentioned, there is now shame from the fetishes, so if you’re keeping track, there is shame from the shame from the shame (yes, my plot is even more convoluted than “Inception”).

Here are some questions/conclusions regarding you.

9. Considering what you do, you’d be equipped to provide release (please pardon the pun, though perhaps I’m making light of things by touching on the pun, which is always the folly one risks when stating “No pun intended.”).  I might feel better for a brief period of time.  Or at least feel something.
10. In light of this deranged email, would you still associate with me?  I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.
11. Do you believe you can alleviate the shame of possessing such fetishes?
12? Considering the deep, but rather evident underlying feelings surrounding them, do you think you’re capable of going beyond satisfying a few kinks?
13. Would you be willing to if you could?

I don’t know why I’m reaching out to you instead of a therapist, family member, or friend. Prolly cuz all have let me down at some point.  Once again, if this is too much for you, simply state so and I’ll never contact you again.  I can respect that.  At the very least, try to take amusement at the fact that, of all things, I’m reaching out to an amateur dominatrix (note that I am not insulting your work or your relatively brief stint doing so professionally, but rather, doing the best that I can of exemplifying this beautifully absurd situation).


Anonymous Man
MISS MARGO (via email) 
Well, I have to tell you, Anonymous Man, this email is definitely a keeper!

M. Margo Has a Caller

Update May 04  7 AM

     Let me wrap up what happened yesterday.

     I couldn’t get personal with him on the phone because I was feeling sort of stunned that this was actually happening, and because I had no privacy–there were probably a half-dozen other people around, including Frau Farbissina.  

       The conversation was very brief.  I got zero useful information out of him.  He acted very friendly, like nothing was the matter.  I wanted to ask: what the hell do you think you’re doing, tracking me down here…?  Cause you know, I never told him I was working at the Studio. 

       But then I got confused and second-guessed myself.  Well, you are at work.  When you are at work, people pay you to provide services.  He wants to pay you for your work.  That is perfectly normal.  Perfectly normal!

      The other part of my brain shrieks: there is nothing normal about this situation.  

       Confused part: is it possible that I misjudged this man and the emotional tone of our previous interaction?  Because it felt really personal.  You knew he was fascinated.  You knew he wanted to have a personal relationship with you.  Were you wrong?  Did you make that up?  Maybe you were all wrong, and it wasn’t personal at all for him.  Maybe all of that was a projection.  Maybe he just wants to hire a pro for a service, just to kick out the jams.  Like trying a new hairdresser!

      Other part of my brain:  Margo, you ain’t no hairdresser and this behavior is dangerous and inappropriate.  

       Confused part: men get crushes on you!  Happens all the time! Students!  Their dads!  Random guys you meet in here!

       Other part of my brain: Yes, but that doesn’t freak you out.  

       I retreated to the locker room, concentrating furiously.  Confused!  Confused!

        I have to get out of this.  How?  Frau Farbissina will skin me alive.  

        Well, wait–fuck it.  I do not owe her, or the studio, an explanation.  I’m not on a salary.  I make them money and cost them nothing.  In fact, if you count the random chores I do, and all of the training I give new girls, they benefit from my presence even when business is dead.  

       What’ll you tell him?  Something brief, face-saving, and impersonal: I’m retiring.  If pressed, proffer the fictive boyfriend.  

         *                                *                              *                  *

  This morning I went to the gym and then to my favorite agnostic AA meeting.  I couldn’t go out to lunch with the others afterward because I had to run uptown to cover the day shift at the Studio.  

      I was in back drawing on the liquid eyeliner when the manager called for me.  I thought I was going to get yelled at because she SOMEHOW failed to read that I changed my schedule today (I cut my shifts by more than 50% and the management doesn’t like it), but she wanted to tell me that some new guy booked a three-hour appointment with me. Outside.

     “Three hours?”  Three hours is a long time.  I’ve been hired for two hours before, and one time a person wanted me to attend the opera with him, but three hours outside is pretty unusual. I’ve heard of inebriated rich men coming in at 1 AM who stay until the sun comes up, but I’ve had very little personal experience with them–only the most acute financial distress can compel me to work nights.  “What does he want to do for three hours?  Did he say?” 

      “He asked for you specifically.  He wants you for a masochist.  I confirmed that you do that.” 

      “Oh wait, hold on,” I said, alarmed.  Why was I volunteered to do God-Knows-What for God-Knows-Who?  What did this entail?   “You know that I am very, very selective about doing that professionally.  We don’t even know this guy.  I haven’t interviewed him.  I haven’t said that I’d do anything.”

      Frau Farbissina appeared in the doorway.  “What you theenk?  You theenk you gonna cost zees place six hundred bucks?  After you cut all your hours?  People calling for you, I say you hardly coming in.  Makes me look like asshole!” 

      “But I haven’t even talked to him yet.  I don’t even know what he wants.  Where the hell does he want me to go, anyway?”

      “Ask heem!  He on the phone right now!”

       “He’s on the phone right now?

       “I didn’t theenk you dumb blonde!  Yes, he iz on phone!  Go talk!”

        I picked up the phone.  “Hello, this is Miss Margo.”

        “At last!  You know, you’re a very difficult woman to get ahold of.  I hope that everything is all right with you.”  

        “Uhh, who am I speaking with?” But I knew, gentle reader.  I remembered the voice. I knew, but I was still surprised.  Taken aback, actually.  I’ve been prepared for the Surgeon to pull a stunt like this–he’s done it before–but at least he was, like, my quasi-boyfriend (because that makes inappropriate and harassing boundaries violations okay, right?).    

         “You don’t remember?  I thought I left more of an impression on you.”

          Oh, yes.  He left an impression on me, all right.  All sorts of impressions.  


       (Will finish this later; I gotta run)

Some Girls Wander by Mistake into the Mess that Scalpels Make

     I have been in thrall to Leonard Cohen since I discovered him when I was 20 years old and I would happily give him my soul in a McDonald’s Happy Meal box if he asked.  Or even if he didn’t.

      If you don’t know who Leonard Cohen is, I advise you to run over to YouTube and start listening without delay!  Without delay!

      What accounts for his appeal…?  Even in his youth, he couldn’t sing worth a damn–his voice was simply serviceable, at best.  His music is not complex.  Understated.  He’s plain to look at and doesn’t command attention–in live performances, his backup singers usually steal the show.  He’s probably eighty years old.

     However, I cannot think of a better songwriter.  Period.   And not only is he an excellent poet, but he puts himself out there–100%, all the time, in every song.  His songs are breathtakingly intimate.  I honestly don’t know how he does it.  I spill my guts on this blog, but it is a constant effort. I still usually pull back, pull back.

      So sensitive, and such courage.

      That is what makes art.