Call me Maggie. It's not the name my parents chose. Not exactly. They named me Margaret after my grandmother, a sweet-faced, white-haired woman who wore support hose. The name fit her. For short, they called me Peggy after a sister of a sister-in-law, perky and popular. The name fit. Her.
My parents doomed me to a life of forever explaining how Peggy is short for Margaret. The same way Dick is short for Richard, only less phallic. My family name is Mitchell. So I was doomed to a life of forever laughing as people say, "Hey, didn't you write Gone With the Wind?" That was one of the Atlanta Mitchells; we are the Detroit Mitchells. And frankly my dear...
So I married young and badly. He systematically squashed the life out of me and mined my body for cheap thrills until just as I was about to go under for the third time...
I killed him.
Should have--didn't. Kicked him out though. I found it wasn't enough to throw off my married name. I looked around me dazed and confused. Much like the East Germans did when the Politburo said, "Screw it, we quit." So I changed the radio presets in the car, added walnuts back into my brownies, and bought all new underwear. And I changed my first name, too. Sort of.
Maggie fits me like an old pair of jeans just before the knees go. Maggie has femininity and moxie. Like daisies that grow on freeway medians. Best of all, I never again have to answer that dumb question: How do you get Peggy out of Margaret?
I don't know; she just escaped.