Tag Archive for: Maggie Barbieri

America vs. American Idol

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Tonight, we crown the winner of one of my favorite television shows, “American Idol.” In one corner, we have adorable Kris Allen, a young married crooner from Arkansas. And in the other corner, we have goth shrieker Adam Lambert, an eye-line wearing spiked-hair tenor from California. Who will win? I think it’s already a foregone conclusion, but who am I to predict? (It’s Adam…he’s a shoe-in.)

Part of the fun of AI, for me anyway, is to be able to critique the different singers and to see how you match up with the judges. I find Randy Jackson to be somewhat on the mark, Kara to be all over the place with her opinions, Paula to be on another planet, and Simon to be right most of the time (we do have our disagreements). I’m no vocal coach but even I have learned what “pitchy” means and is and when someone is singing beyond their register (that’s uncomfortable to listen to, I gotta say). I know what Paula means when she says someone has a nice “timbre” to their voice (even though I suspect she thinks it has something to do with trees) and an even “tone.” The contestants get their clothing criticized or embraced, the way they wear their hair commented on, and even get comments on the fans in the audience and what they have to say about the contestants after they sing. And for young adults, for the most part, they handle it with grace.

But usually, the AI contestants fit a mold: they are earnest, anxious, talented, and ready for the big stage. They fit a certain profile: amateur, enthusiastic, wholesome (and if they are the “rocker” contestant for that season, it’s a studied look not a natural one), fresh-faced, a cross-section of America. White, black, Asian, straight or gay, they are all pretty much the same. That’s why I’m so surprised that America is so in love with Adam, who I happen to like, but who breaks all the rules when it comes to popular AI contestants.

First, the goth look. His pants wear him rather than the other way around. They’re tight, black or striped, hug the hips, and are usually accompanied by a leather bolero jacket or vest. And that’s just in the weeks where he’s not channeling Roy Orbison or Buddy Holly and has his hair swept back in the twenty-first century’s version of a pompadour. But the little girls, and even some of the big ones, go crazy for him.

Second, there’s a lot of caterwauling. There was the week he did Led Zeppelin and while he did do Robert Plant proud, I find the screaming into the microphone a little unnerving. Not so America. They dialed him right into the next round, timbre and tone be damned. They love this guy! There is hope for humanity after all.

Third, he doesn’t seem to care. He’s obviously jazzed to be on the show and very enthusiastic—that’s an understatement—when he sings. But he takes any criticism that is doled out with a smile and a shrug. He’s already been in a traveling production of “Phantom” or “Les Miz” (I can’t remember which) and probably will go back to a career in singing. He’s confident of his ability. And he sure isn’t going to cave if Simon Cowell tells him that he’s off-key. It seems like he takes it all in stride. The kid’s a professional.

The antithesis of Adam is the other finalist, Kris. He fits the typical AI mold, with the exception that he’s married. Not too many married contestants have strutted their stuff at the Kodak Theatre. In his jeans, with his guitar, and the mustache that still hasn’t grown in after all these weeks of trying, the kid is adorable. I’d love to put him in my pocket and just take him out when I need to hear a pretty close version to the original “You’ve Got a Friend.” But he did knock everyone’s socks off with a bongo-flavored rendition of “She Works Hard for the Money.” Didn’t see that coming. What does he have in store for the finale, I wonder?

There’s been speculation that Adam may be American Idol’s first openly-gay winner, but it doesn’t seem like America really cares. And that, my friends, is a very nice coda to another fun-filled season of American Idol. It seems like we’ve finally come to a point where it doesn’t really matter who wins, or what their orientation is, as long as they can sing.

What up, Dawg?

Maggie Barbieri

The Lost Art of Saying Thank You

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Child #1 had her birthday in February; child #2 in April. Last night, the subject of thank you note writing came up and Jim asked both of them if they had written thank you’s for the birthday presents they received. The blank stares that were returned in response gave us our answer.

That would be NO.

So after several minutes of admonishments, we were still no closer to mailing out thank you notes (“I said thank you to all of my friends when they were here” doesn’t cut it but they think it does) but I was closer to a topic for today’s post: The Lost Art of Saying “Thank You.”

Maybe it should be “The Lost Art of Writing the Thank You.” That might be more apt.

Nothing delights me more than getting thank you notes in the mail. It is always nice to get an acknowledgment of your thoughtfulness, isn’t it? I tried to explain this to the kids but I think that the fact that most people don’t think that writing a note is important anymore speaks to the casual nature of our society. We let our children’s friends call us by our first names; jeans are appropriate attire just about everywhere; and people are usually plugged in and shun human contact because they are listening to their IPod, checking their BlackBerry, or chatting on their cell phones in public.

I mentioned my consternation to a friend who said that her children feel the same way about thank you notes. She, on the other hand, orders engraved stationery from a very upscale store in Manhattan so that she has enough notes on hand at any given time. Me? I use my Nancy Drew note cards exclusively. Who doesn’t want a note card with a photo of the cover of “The Secret of the Old Clock” in their possession? It is the rare person, I suspect.

When I was diagnosed with cancer four years ago and had to undergo some pretty grueling chemotherapy, friends rallied around and formed a cooking squad. Everyone had a night to cook, and three times a week, we were the recipients of some fabulous meals. I was embarrassed at first, but then realized that this is something that people wanted to do. They wanted to help. So I put my embarrassment aside and accepted the meals as graciously as I could—when I wasn’t peering under a foil lid to see what we were having for dinner in the presence of the cook. As my surgery date approached, I made it a goal to sit down and write thank you’s to everyone who had shown me kindness over the previous three months, and not just those who had cooked. It was important to me to let them know that their generosity of spirit and thoughtfulness meant more to me than they would ever know. A thank you note was just a small token of my appreciation.

Writing all of those notes made me feel better. They reminded me that I was not alone on the journey…everyone who had said a prayer or treated me like the same old Maggie when I was bald and weak or brought me a meal was special to me.

People would say, “Oh, you didn’t have to write me a thank you; you have cancer.” To which I would reply, “I might have cancer, but I still have manners.”

There’s no explaining this to a teen and pre-teen when you’re exhorting them to take the time to write their friends and extended family a note for birthday gifts bestowed. For the kids, a birthday present are a birthright, and of course “I said ‘thank you’ when they were here!” is their argument. But it is important that we don’t let these customs go by the wayside. Your friends and family are important, and when they give you a gift or show you a kindness—whatever it is—they deserve recognition and thanks.

Maggie Barbieri

Musings on Malice and Mystery

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Well, the Northern half of Evelyn David and I are back and I’m happy to report that we had a fabulous weekend. Even the food at the banquet was good…not rubber chicken! (It actually might have been, but I was so hungry at that point that I was ready to gnaw off my own arm.)

Since this was my first Malice, I didn’t know what to expect and as you know, faithful readers of the Stiletto Gang, I was expecting the worst. I had convinced myself that it would be a cross between high school and the prison rec yard in terms of the welcome that I would receive as a first-time conventioneer. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The writers and the fans were warm, encouraging, and delightful to talk to. I made several new friends and promise to keep in touch. But the best thing of all about attending was that I got re-energized about writing and about getting further into my fifth book about Alison Bergeron, something I was hoping would happen while I was away.

Mystery fans are a devoted lot, I must say. They know their books, their authors, the characters, and the plot lines. I am awe of how much these people know about series—where they began, where they are going, where they might have ended—and how loyal they are as readers. Evelyn David and I had a long conversation about what authors owe their readers and decided that we didn’t really know. What happens when you kill off a major character? What does that do to your readership? Does it matter? Maybe. I write my books attempting to stay true to the characters and their lives. But, I do give a lot of thought—if not to what the fans might say—but to just how real-life a certain plot point might be or what a certain action will do to the arc of the series. I guess part of that thought process, maybe subconsciously, takes into account what the fans might think. I know that there are successful authors who have killed off a fan favorite and heard about it from their readership. I don’t know if that has affected the writing they do now, but I do know that it probably affected them in terms of the criticism they had to endure.

But I digress. I also had the pleasure of sitting on a panel with Parnell Hall, Rhys Bowen, and Carole Nelson Douglas; we were charge with appearing as our main character, in costume. Well, if you have read the Alison Bergeron series and know anything about me, it is that Alison and I are pretty similar when it comes to what we wear. Evelyn suggested that I appear in a hockey jersey, an homage to Alison’s love of the game. When I got to the panel, I could see that clearly I was out of my league. Parnell was dressed as Cora Felton, aka the Puzzle Lady; Rhys was in a ball gown, blonde wig, and tiara, dressed as Georgie, cousin of King George V of England; and Carole was in black feathers from head to toe, impersonating her feline protagonist, Midnight Louie. I was clearly out of my league. (Evelyn knew it, too. I could tell by the look on her face.) I decided to play the straight man. There was no way I could compete with this crowd. It worked out pretty well, and although I didn’t get the guffaws that my panel-mates did, I think I held my own.

Future promotional activities include a speaking engagement at my alma mater; two bookstore signings with Evelyn; and perhaps a trip to Bouchercon (I’m still deciding on that one). But I’ve left the attic, dear friends. And in the immortal words of Nina Simone, “I am feeling good.”

Maggie Barbieri

Off to Malice

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If you read this blog on a regular basis, you know that I spend an inordinate amount of time in my attic. My office is located up there, a little alcove that is filled with books, manuscripts, and shoes (we’re short on closet space in this almost one hundred year old house). But for the first time in my writing career, I’m heading to Malice Domestic this weekend with the northern half of Evelyn David, my good friend Marian Borden, who has schooled me in the ins and outs of attending the convention. And thank god she did, because I had no idea what to expect.

As she mentioned in Monday’s post, we have both been invited to participate in Malice Go Round, a mystery convention version of speed dating, where we have the opportunity to do a two-minute presentation on our latest books—mine being Quick Study—to groups of fans. I was told by the person chairing the convention that it is nice to do a little giveaway, a bookmark, post card, some candy. Well, suffice it to say that BJ’s needs to restock their candy aisle because I bought more candy than I’ve ever bought during the Halloween season, and still didn’t make my goal of making it last through one hundred bags. I’m on eighty, with a goal of preparing one hundred and fifty. So it’s back to BJ’s this week. I hope they’ve restocked.

Marian and I had a quick lunch to go over the details of the convention. My concern? That I’ve been in the attic so long that I’ve forgotten how to behave in polite society. If your day in the “office” starts at eight and ends somewhere in the vicinity of twelve hours later—after brief interludes of making sandwiches, doing laundry, NOT cleaning the bathroom, and preparing chicken cutlets for the fifth time in a week—and you’re by yourself with only Bonnie, the very emotionally needy Westie, to keep you company and talk to, you’d be nervous, too. I’m guessing that mystery conventioneers don’t respond to the same verbal cues as Bonnie and won’t get all excited if I ask them if they want a treat. I’ve been practicing my convention small talk, and watching myself in the mirror as I introduce myself to someone else. (That hasn’t been going very well. I’m starting to look like someone who needs anti-anxiety medication. When you introduce yourself, I guarantee that your smile shouldn’t include ALL of your teeth. Molars shouldn’t be part of the introduction equation.)

Marian and I are looking forward to the opening night reception (see previous paragraph on small talk, introductions, and smiling) and the banquet on Saturday night, though I am in a dither as to what to wear. If I wait long enough to pack, that will become a non-issue and I’ll just throw something in my suitcase that will have to do. I have a longstanding aversion to packing since my editorial job where I had to travel three months a year. Packing meant leaving and leaving meant not seeing husband and child number one for at least a week, if not longer. I’m trying to think through what I need, but know that I’ll be throwing items in a suitcase on Thursday morning, moments before I’m supposed to leave, confident that there is an underground mall beneath the hotel for anything I’ve forgotten.

I expressed all of the anxiety I was feeling about traveling down to the convention in a recent post. But something recently dawned me: I’ll be in a hotel room, by myself, for three nights. That, in itself, sounds fabulous. And if I do have any anxiety about mixing and mingling, I only have to remember the inimitable words of fellow poster, Marilyn Meredith: “Everyone’s in the same boat. Just smile and start talking.”

I’ll do that. I’ll just have to make sure that I keep my molars to myself.

Maggie Barbieri

On the Road and Loving It

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This is a busy week. On Thursday night I’ve been invited to the Burlington County Literacy Volunteers Dinner with an Author , at Braddocks Tavern in Medford, NJ. As a writer, I celebrate those wonderful volunteers who “change lives word by word.” There will be an author at each table, and we’ll have the opportunity to sell our books after the dinner. It’s such a noble cause and if you’re at the dinner, please stop by and say hello.

Immediately after the event, my husband and I will hit the road heading South, stopping somewhere for the night when he gets too tired of driving. I’ve got to be in Arlington, Virginia by 11 am the next morning for the kickoff of Malice Domestic . Along with fellow Stiletto Gang blogger Maggie Barbieri, I’ll be part of Malice-Go-Round, a sort of speed dating for mystery writers and fans. The authors move from table to table, with two minutes to give a short spiel about their book(s). You’ve got to grab the fans’ attention, while summarizing your book without giving away too much of the plot. What I do give away is candy (what goes better with murder and mayhem than chocolate?).

Once Malice-Go-Round is finished, I’ll have plenty of time to schmooze with other Malice-ites, as well as attend the fabulous panels and fun banquet. I’ve created two bountiful baskets for the charity auction, one for Evelyn David and the other for The Stiletto Gang. There’s chocolate, alcohol, and mysteries involved in both – sounds good to me!

Finally on Sunday, at 12:30, I’m on the panel, “I Hear Voices,” moderated by Patti Ruocco (mystery fan and librarian), with authors J.B. Stanley, Kate Carlisle, and Clyde Linsley. I’ll be talking about character development – and learning a lot too! Can’t wait.

If you’re going to be at Malice, please let me know. It would be great to meet and greet!

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

Dear Mr. President

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I just read an article in the New York Times that described how, in the White House, it is one person’s job to cull ten letters from the tens of thousands that are received weekly for the President to read. The President reads them, and responds with a handwritten letter of his own to the ten that are chosen. In one, he asked the mother, who had written the letter about her son who was about to be deployed to the Middle East, to thank her son for his service. She was touched that President Obama used her son’s first name in the letter and took time to respond in writing.

According to the article, the President tears up when reading some of these letters. The letters that are chosen are designed to make the President “uncomfortable” with their messages, to show him how hard it is out there to be an American in these daunting economic times. It got me thinking, though: what would I write to the President? What message would I want to send him, if I had the inclination to write him? I feel like he’s on the right track so far, just shy of his first hundred days, and I’m willing to give him a little more time to make all of this work out. But if I were going to write him today—right now—what would I say? Just a little sampling:

1. Dear Mr. President: Could you please make the Department of Motor Vehicles a nicer place to visit and work? Could you please make it so the people that work there aren’t as miserable as human beings can be and happy to assist you with your learner’s permit, your license renewal, or even your picture? Could you please make it so that the camera at the DMV doesn’t make you look like you’ve just spent twenty-five years in the Gulag for a crime you didn’t commit?

2. Dear Mr. President: I’ve noticed that even though the price of gas has dropped considerably since last summer, our groceries, clothing, sundries, and other consumer-based items are still sky high. As a matter of fact, I spent nearly $200.00 on groceries yesterday at the store, and I’m a pretty savvy shopper. Why has gas come down, yet everything else stayed so high? Weren’t we told that the reason we were paying more for everything was due to the price of gas? What gives?

3. Dear Mr. President: Please get our troops out of Iraq. Toute de suite.

4. Dear Mr. President: Please make our waterways safer for Merchant Marines. Pirates? What the heck is up with that? I’ve been warning my kids for years that if they didn’t eat citrus, they would get scurvy, like pirates. They would always remind me that pirates didn’t exist. Suffice it to say that we’ve got a bunch of orange-eaters around here now so I guess something positive has come out of the recent headlines.

5. Dear Mr. President: Please thank your wife for planting that vegetable garden on the grounds of the White House and for making healthy eating an initiative. We’ve got too many overweight children, too many fast-food alternatives for people who don’t know the joys of fresh food, and too many children with food and weight-related illnesses in this country that could be managed by diet. Thank her for thinking of our children and making them a priority.

6. Dear Mr. President: Please make our environment a priority. Please find alternative fuel sources for our gas-guzzling society to use instead of fossil fuels. Please find someone for your staff—anyone—who can make clean air, clean water, and conservation a top priority and make Americans believe that that’s the only way to go if we’re going to live long, healthy lives.

7. And last but not least…Dear Mr. President: Can you please find out why my tax return has been delayed?

P.S. And, of course, “Why didn’t you get a Westie?”

Maggie Barbieri

Dating in the Modern World–Not for the Faint of Heart

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My Stiletto sisters of Monday and Tuesday have given me plenty of food for thought and I was debating between the “first date” post versus the “guilty pleasure” post. Since writing about my guilty pleasures could take a lot longer than it should, I’ll start with first dates or just dating in general.

I didn’t go on too many first dates, luckily. I was fortunate to meet my husband in college where we first became friends in one of our shared French classes. I was struggling a bit with the material and our teacher—a woman who was truly a Fairy Godmother to me and Jim—suggested that this younger man help me with my studies. Suffice it to say that the only things I can say in French are,“I need more wine, please” and “Where is the bathroom?” but I found my soul mate and the love of my life. So who cares if I confuse the words for factory and pool in French?

For some reason, though, I’ve been thinking a lot about dating mores in the modern world. I find myself having made the acquaintances of younger women and am in awe of what goes on the in the world of 21st century dating. Texting, email, Facebook, Blackberry communication…it’s daunting. Doesn’t anyone use the phone anymore? Or talk to each other face to face? Although back in the day, some of us were known to sit by the phone for hours on end waiting for that special someone to call, is the instant access of today any better? What happens if you text a paramour and don’t hear back from him/her instantly? To me, that seems much worse than staring at a non-ringing phone, willing it to trill. Knowing that everyone is plugged in twenty-four/seven and not receiving a text back would make me nuts. And I think I can safely say that that goes for the women I know out there in the dating world.

Several of my younger friends also do online dating, which I thought would be a good resource until I heard about how many potential dates post pictures of people other than themselves to draw dates in. And of course, I’m a mystery writer, so all I think about is meeting a stranger in a bar for a drink or a cup of coffee and how that scenario could go so wrong. But I also know three friends who met their spouses online; all are happy, well-adjusted, and giant proponents of online dating.

It’s the speed of everything nowadays that gives me pause. A similarly-aged friend and I were talking to a much younger friend who is attempting to embark on a new relationship. This new couple is still sorting things out—the “dance,” so to speak. My advice? Take it slow. Let it marinate. My friend’s advice? Look for a companion. Look for someone to do things with that you like to do. Have fun together. Decide what it is that is a deal breaker and what you can live with, because guess what? We’re not all perfect. Don’t expect him to hang on your every word, or vice versa. Go from sixty miles an hour to thirty and see how that feels.

The younger woman stared at us, dubious, but I did remind her that we have a combined 30 + years of marriage between us, so we can’t be all wrong, right? I know things are different, but are they truly that different?

What’s going on out there in the dating world? Your thoughts from the trenches, please.

Maggie Barbieri

Can’t We All Just Get Along?

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We are approaching that time of year when we elect two new trustees and a new mayor in our little Village. And like in years past, I find again that people who I thought I knew and liked become vicious and petty, all in support of their candidates and their personal agendas. You thought national politics was bad? You ain’t seen nothing until you’ve witnessed what goes on here.

On the one side, you’ve got a mayor who is technically a Democrat but who ran, and won, on the Republican ticket. On the other, you have a former trustee, a registered Democrat, who is vying for that position. Both men—with whom I both agree and disagree on a number of different issues—are to be commended for their willingness to throw their individual hats into this mudfest we call a “campaign.” At issue is the rezoning (according to the Democrats) or development (according to the Republicans) of a part of the Village that is virtually a ghost town, most restaurants and/or businesses having fled in the past several years for greener pastures or bankruptcy—we’re actually not sure which.

Both sides have good points. On the Democratic side, are we willing to just let this part of town founder and wither? On the Republican side, where will everyone park provided that the plan goes through to attract new businesses and increase the number of rental units? I would love to see both sides debate these issues with the facts at hand and decorum in full force. But we won’t get this wish because of the inflammatory nature of each argument. So what we get are accusations, recriminations, slander and libel.

I might be wrong, but aren’t we all adults? And don’t we live in a Village of 7,500 people where it is entirely possible that the person you wrote horrible things about on the local blog might just run into you at the Post Office?

This lack of civility in local politics—and I swear it is entirely more civilized at the national level—has me feeling very sad for our Village. It also makes me feel that someone who may be interested in becoming a public servant—and a good one at that—may see what goes in our local papers, online, and at various Village meetings and decide that they just don’t have the stomach for it. I can’t say that I blame them. A recent posting by a Villager on the local blog excoriated another poster for their opinion on a political issue related to this year’s election, ending his screed with an allegation of the other poster’s “drunkenness.” We can all disagree, and we do. But do we have to bring personal attacks into the discussion?

I guess I’d like to know from our Stiletto Gang readers if this type of behavior is rampant and exists all over the country or if what I am witnessing is an anomaly. I’m hoping it’s the latter. But at this point, all I can say is that I can’t wait for this election to be over. May the thicker-skinned candidate win.

Maggie Barbieri

More on Stuff

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In no way, shape, or form could I be considered a neat freak. I’d like to think I am, but when dust bunnies come rolling out from behind my bedroom door as I walk by, I’d say that aspiring to be one is not a realistic goal. However, in following up with Evelyn’s Monday post about “stuff,” I have some definite opinions. And they do not gibe with the rest of my family’s take on the subject.

I’m a “dumper” married to—and the mother of—“hoarders.”

I’ve been accused of possessing no sentiment, but my defense is simple: If it wasn’t for me and my big, black plastic garbage bags making a sweep of the house every now and again (usually when no one is home), we’d be overrun by stuff. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

They’re wise to me, though. They have taken to sifting through the garbage bags when I’m not around and retrieving stuff they know they cannot live without. For example, the book of stickers that my daughter got for her fifth birthday (she’s now fifteen). Or, the forty pairs of ice skates—in various sizes—that my husband’s colleague at work gave him because he was throwing out his own stuff. Or one of those goofy “family information” posters that tell you fake information about your family based on your surname. News flash: They all have the same information on them. We also have vhs versions of every Disney movie, every plastic super hero ever made, bills and checks from before we had children, and a hodgepodge of furniture from various points in our lives.

I fear that if I don’t take serious action soon, we may be overtaken by our stuff.

My husband’s answer is “we need more storage.” My answer is “we need to throw more stuff out.” Tell me, how do a hoarder and a dumper meet halfway? Do any of you have the answers out there? (And I’m looking at you, Marilyn, because you’ve been married the longest.) I’m wondering, if like Evelyn, we decided to downsize if that would encourage the disposal of all of the things I don’t think we need, yet everyone else considers essential? Is moving the only way to get rid of your stuff?

I took it upon myself to get rid of a bunch of 45s—remember those? Small records with a weird cut out in the middle?—a few years back. I thought the coast was clear and that nobody would miss them until my husband decided to buy a turntable. He searched for his 45s and finally asked me if I had seen them. Busted. I had to admit that I had thrown them out.

But I’ve found that I’ve become the scapegoat for all missing objects. Can’t find your homework? Mom must have recycled it. Missing a shoe? We bet Mommy threw it out! Looking for that crucial bit of paper that had all of our 2008 tax information on it? Well, there’s a big black plastic bag in the closet…look in there. We bet she tossed it with the rest of the garbage.

I have to admit that after the 45s affair, I’m less inclined to throw people’s stuff out without asking their permission first. But I’ve found that asking permission to throw something out is met with hurled invective and recriminations. So, I’m putting you, our faithful Stiletto Gang readers, on notice: if for some reason I don’t post next week, send someone to my house and up to my office. You may just find me under a mountain of stuff.

Maggie Barbieri

To Blackberry or Not…

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I had an appointment in the New York City yesterday that would require me to spend several hours in a waiting room, followed by several more hours in another waiting room. The night before, faced with this prospect (and the one and half hours that I’d be spending on the train into and out of New York City) and thinking about other “wasted” times spent sitting around, I started to wonder: is it time to get a Blackberry?

As you all know, I work from home. Technically, although I do work for other people on a freelance basis, I work for myself. Should time spent sitting in a waiting room be productive, or should this be the time I catch up on my reading, make new friends (people in waiting rooms tend to want to talk to other people in the waiting room), or just meditate? I haven’t decided. But the pull toward the personal data assistant or whatever PDA stands for, is getting greater, and I turn to you, oh venerated Stiletto Gang readers for advice.

My sister, who works for a company who offers these devices and calling plans, said, “They’re great. But you are married to them then.” Another friend couldn’t live without hers. Would I become a slave to the PDA or forget I even had it? Do I really need to check my email every few minutes throughout the day, regardless of where I am? I’m undecided.

I returned from New York City yesterday to more than forty emails. Those of you in the corporate world are probably laughing, thinking to yourselves, “Forty? That’s bush league, sister. Try coming back to two hundred!” But in my world, forty is a lot. Especially since all of them include information that is necessary and meaningful. You in corporate America get at least twenty responses that say “I’ll be there” to the email that circulated about some meeting taking place Friday morning at ten. Those, my friends, do not count in your overall total. Would it have been better for me to sit in the waiting room and respond to at least twenty of those emails? Or does it not matter? Should my clients have to wait until I return or should I be available to them twenty four/seven? I leave these weighty questions in your hands.

I know that the Southern half of Evelyn David has a Blackberry, so I’m hoping she weighs in with the plusses and minuses of PDA ownership. I do know that I will have to invest in the device that has the largest key pad because even though I do not possess overly-large hands, I can’t imagine that I’ll be able to write messages with any kind of ease unless the keys on the keypad approach the size of those on my laptop. I know the keys are larger than those of my cell phone, but exactly how large do they need to be? All I know is that it took me ten minutes to text my daughter these two words, “not sure,” in response to her message to me, “What time will you be home?” I do not have that kind of time, people. And if you need an immediate answer from me on an important issue, do not—I repeat, do not—text me. It will be hours before I’m able to type a comprehensible reply.

I await your wise counsel. To Blackberry or not—that is the question.

Maggie Barbieri