Tag Archive for: Maggie Barbieri

Control Freak: A Life

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Control Freak

My husband went to Cape Cod last week with his class of seventh graders for a week of whale watching, nature hikes, and science exploration. Me? I was home with the kids, who ate Elio’s pizza every night while I had a bowl of cereal and a glass of chardonnay. There’s a certain freedom in not having to cook a meal every night—not that Jim expects that—and by being able to put your pajamas at six thirty, just in time to see what our presidential nominees have said about each other that goes beyond, “nanny-nanny-poopoo”. (The answer? Not much.) Or what their running mates and constituents have said or done to help either candidate effectively lose the race. Say what you want about either candidate, but it ain’t easy being them.

Anyway, after two days of nighttime cereal and pajama wearing, I got bored. And when I get bored, things can take a seriously dramatic turn around here. And by dramatic turn, I mean furniture gets moved around. All of it. At once. By me. I don’t let anything like a lack of upper-body strength or the absence of professional movers stand in the way of moving any furniture, be it a wing chair or a heavy sideboard. When I decide I want something moved, by golly, it will be moved.

So I moved a bench from the hallway into the living room (looks great), a chair to a nice corner of the room and away from the television (perfect for reading), rearranged a few odd pieces, and voila—new living room. I was very happy with the way things turned out.

Jim called that night to see how things were going.

Me: Now, if you were me, you would probably have a complete melt down when I tell you this, but because you’re you, I’m hoping you don’t.

Jim (steeling himself on the other end of the phone line): What’s going on?

Me (inhaling deeply): I rearranged the living room.

Jim (exhaling loudly): That’s it?

Me: Yep.

Jim: Well, that’s better than what I thought you were going to say.

See, the thing is, Jim’s not a control freak. But I am. And if he had called me and said that he had rearranged the furniture in my absence, that news would have ruined my trip. I would fret the whole way home, an inner monologue playing out in my twisted brain: where did he put the couch? What about my mirror? Where will the three framed pictures of France go? And will they look good there? God, I bet the whole thing got screwed up! I hate change of any kind but that still doesn’t account for the iron fist that I impose on everything. Once, he had supervised a fence being installed in the back yard while I was a national sales meeting for my company. I kept him on the phone for at least forty-five minutes, hectoring him as he described exactly what the fence guy had done. Years later, I have no idea what it was that seemed so important at the time about the placement of the fence, but back then? It was about as important as one thing can get, and I’ve been through some pretty important life events.

What is it that makes some of us cling to things that really don’t make a difference? What makes us control freaks? I think it is a way to place order on a chaotic life—when I was working full-time out of the house, traveling the equivalent of three months a year, and was away from my family for far longer than I wanted to be, it was my way of imposing order on things or making it seem like I was involved or in control. I was definitely involved, but definitely not in control, which made me way to control things even more.

Things do not go more smoothly because I’m a control freak, and while I know that intuitively, it doesn’t change the fact that I have to have my hand in every single thing that happens in the house. And I also know the breath of fresh air that wafts into a room when I relinquish control of something. So why does the control freak persist?

Dedicated Stiletto readers: who out there is a control freak? Who’s a recovering control freak? And what advice do you have for this work in progress?

Maggie Barbieri

Giving Back

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As my children get older and begin to understand that we are indeed a very fortunate family in so many ways, not the least of which is financially, we talk a lot about giving back to the community, both small and large. Once every six weeks, as a family, we get together with another family and cook and serve a meal for anywhere from thirty to fifty people at a local church. It takes place every Saturday night and is free to anyone who attends the dinner. We have been doing this since child #1 was about seven and now that child #2 is nine, he is part of the program as well. We cooked and served the other night to a crowd of about thirty-five: men, women, young, old, families, and singles. It was a chilly night here in New York, and most of our guests made the trek on foot. One of our guests told us that he had spent the previous night sleeping outside. We made every effort to make sure he didn’t spend a second night outdoors, directing him to a local place that is home to an group of Franciscans.

We are lucky that we have this opportunity to give back and to do it as a family. I know a lot of people who tell me that they would love to volunteer but don’t know where to start. Well, today, I have a suggestion. My good friend, Mary Beth Powers, works for Save the Children, and is the campaign chief of Survive to 5, a program that is dedicated to keeping children around the world healthy and free from what we here in the United States consider preventable diseases. Mary Beth wrote me last week with her latest initiative called Knit One, Save One. Here’s the information:

I am sure you and your children are all super busy, but I just thought I would give you some info on our crafting campaign and you just might find a reason to help your children make a cap or at least to write a letter to the President Elect suggesting that the next administration has an important role to play to reduce the unnecessary deaths of millions of children from preventable diseases… You can download a KNIT ONE, SAVE ONE kit at the website below (but it will ask for your contact info to keep you “in the loop” on the project).

If they are in a club or group that would be willing to participate that is even better! They can plan a knit-in and I could even help with press outreach! If you are a teacher or in a school, maybe we could create an event for interested students afterschool so many can help.

If you want to understand the project – we have a couple of videos on YouTube about “Knit One, Save One”. And some celebrity knitters will soon be on our website with their cool caps as well.

It is a nice way to get people and especially children engaged in an issue beyond our own borders and to reach across the miles and give a small gift and good wishes to a mother and a baby on the other side of the world.

Thanks for considering this request.

Are you a CRAFTIVIST? Be 1 of the 10 million people who take action to help us save a baby’s life. To learn more and find out how you can help, go to file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/cgrasso/Application%20Data/Microsoft/Signatures/www.savethechildren/surviveto5.

I don’t think I could say it any better than Mary Beth. Although I’m not a knitter, I know people who are and I will do everything I can to get them involved. That’s my contribution. And it might just occur to one of them to give me free knitting lessons!

So, if you’re out there and you’re a “Craftivist” or just want to do something to give back, this is your chance. Knit a cap and save a life.

Maggie Barbieri

There Are No Special Occasions–Just Regular Days to be Celebrated

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I’m sure, like me, you come from a family of “save it for a special occasion” people. You know what I mean: use grandma’s tablecloth? No—save it for a special occasion. Break out the Waterford on a Friday night while eating pizza? Nope—that’s special occasion crystal. Use the china that you registered for on your wedding day? Heavens no—you only use that on a special occasion.

I’ve decided that special occasions are a crock of bull. And exactly what are we waiting for, people?

Case in point. My best friend from college—we’ll call her D.—used to come to my house right after Jim and I had gotten married. We would have pizza, beer and wine. Because we were young and broke, we would pull out our cheap wine glasses and serve our guests their beverage in those. D. would open up every cabinet until she found the Waterford—she, like me, is Irish-American, so she knew there was Waterford crystal hiding somewhere—and would pull out a heavy hock glass and proclaim that she wasn’t drinking out of any old cheap wine glass. She was to be served in the Waterford. I remember relating the story to my mother, the two of us shocked that the Waterford had been pulled out on Friday-night pizza night. But you know what? D. taught me a lesson. Mom always said that everything tastes better in Waterford, so instead of staring at it in our glass-fronted cabinet, we pull it out and use it every chance we get. (And with the amount of wine that is consumed around here on a normal weekend, they get used A LOT.)

Second case in point? Shoes. I own a lot of shoes, probably somewhere in the forty pair range which is a lot of shoes considering that I work in an attic and hardly ever leave the house. Frankly, I probably only need one pair of black pumps and a pair of sneakers, but really, what fun would that be? Most of the shoes I own fall into the $20-$60 range, most of them coming from either Target or Nine West. But last year, I fell in love with a pair of leopard-print, kitten heel pumps called “Fiona” (the name I had chosen for our dog originally but voted down the family). They were ridiculously expensive and completely impractical. I work in the attic, remember? But I lusted after them and talked about them incessantly until my husband finally said, “Just buy them.” The day after he said that, a friend sent me a 30% off coupon to the company that carries the shoe. It was destiny.

I bought them a year ago and have worn them exactly twice. I was saving them for a special occasion. But let’s face it: when you work in the attic, there aren’t too many special occasions that arise. Of course you have holidays and such but these shoes are so beautiful and a little fuzzy so you don’t want to wear them in rain, sleet, or snow, which is what we encounter on most of our holidays out here in the East. But last week, a strange thought came to me: what about if I wore these shoes a few times a week? They look as fabulous with jeans as they do with dressier clothes…what was stopping me from pulling them out and wearing them around town?

I got dressed for church this past Sunday and tested my new theory. I put on a pair of jeans, a cute sweater, and the shoes. I came downstairs and told my husband that the new me was not saving these shoes for a special occasion but was going to wear them whenever I felt like it. He looked up from his paper and gave me a nod. (See, men don’t get theories about shoes or proclamations of this sort. He was unimpressed.) I got so many compliments on the shoes that day that I was sold. I’m wearing them whenever I want. (Trouble is, they’re still not broken in. I’m hoping this new resolve to wear them more often will solve that.)

So all this to say: pull out that tablecloth, use the Waterford, and eat off the china. Drink that expensive bottle of champagne. Wear the expensive shoes with your favorite pair of jeans. Every day that we’re alive and healthy is a special occasion.

So, what are you saving for a special occasion? What prohibits you from using it/wearing it/drinking it? I’ll read your responses right after I finish this glass of seltzer in the Waterford water glass.

Maggie Barbieri

Toward a More Civil Union

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I am constantly amazed at the immaturity of adults and the nature of campaigns, two things that I’m finding are not mutually exclusive. Having watched now one presidential candidate debate and one vice-presidential candidate debate in which all four participants engaged in a “no, you did,” “no, you did!” forensic exercise of futility, I’m starting to lose faith in adults’ ability to get anything done. Or communicate civilly. Or effectively. (Sorry…I know you know who I’m talking about and if you don’t, just fill in the blank with someone else who says, “also, though,” as if that explains everything.) If you can’t even form a complete sentence with a noun, verb, and maybe even a direct or indirect object, you shouldn’t be allowed to run for anything, let alone a political office. And if the best you can do is tell lies about one another and sling mud and smear one another, then you should all put your toys back and go to your rooms for a collective time out.

It’s getting insane. And this lack of decorum, this lack of respect for others’ values, accomplishments, and opinions is all over television, cable and network alike. Today, I caught the slugfest known as The View. If you don’t know what this program is about, it’s basically five Democrats (an actress, two comedians, and Barbara Walters) and one Republican (someone who competed on a reality show) who argue incessantly, vociferously, and loudly about what’s going on in the news. Sometimes they interview an actor or actress who’s discussing their latest “project” (they used to be called “movies”) or they talk about the latest miracle skin cream or cellulite antidote. But generally, they sit around the kitchen table that they use as their bully pulpit and scream at and over each other about current events. And unless you’ve been living in a cave in Tora Bora for the last year, the news of the day concerns the presidential election with a little bit of the economy thrown in for good measure. But basically, they only discuss the economy in order to place blame at the feet at either the Republicans (the four Democrats) or the Democrats (the one Republican). Today, as with many other days, it got personal, the Democrats loading up on the lone Republican who kept chanting “consorting with terrorists” and “character matters” whenever the subject of one of the candidates came up (his name starts with Barack and ends with Obama) while one of the others intoned “Keating 5” or “deregulation” a thousand times over, as if that was a respectable counter-argument.

By the end of these segments, usually one or more of the women look like they’re going to cry, Barbara Walters is red in the face, and I sit and wonder how they’re going to talk to each other about the miracle cellulite cream if they’re not speaking at all.

At around seven o’clock every night, I watch Hardball. More yelling. More talking over one another. More “I know you are, but what am I?” verbal jousting. This is followed by Keith Olbermann, a man who can really turn a phrase, but who lets it fly when it comes to one of the candidates and not the other.

And don’t get me started on Fox News.

I also watch the Rachel Maddow show and have found that she is the only one of the lot who shows a modicum of class when it comes to discussing current events. Her foil is conservative Pat Buchanan and they go at it, but with dignity and a clear respect for each other’s opinions. It’s the definition of “debate.” Neither one hopes to change the other’s mind, but they listen to each other and respond accordingly. I really hope they can keep it up and that these other jokers on the other cable stations take notice. Civility increases ratings, at least in this house.

I have high hopes for the debate tonight but I know I’m just being silly and naïve. In reality, I don’t think it will be any more informative than The View, Hardball, or Keith Olbermann. Supposedly, this will be a “town hall style” debate. Does anyone even know what that means? I’m thinking that it’s the candidates, walking around with mics pinned to their suit jackets, doing folksy and “plain speak” to the people gathered, who supposedly get to ask the questions. But will they get answers? That will be the reason I tune in. Because for the life of me, I can’t understand why someone just can’t simply answer the question “What is your name?” without hyperbole, calling the other candidate’s record into question (or even calling them names), or calling themselves a maverick, patriotic, or an agent of change. Just answer the damn question. “My name is X. And we will do Y. That’s why you should vote for us.”

We’ve got less than a month until the election and my fear is that the level of discourse will sink even lower and that more mud will get slung. There will be more name calling, more supposed “skeletons” dragged out of closets that haven’t been open in twenty, thirty, or forty years, and more snarky sound bites.

And that’s just from the ladies of The View. I can’t even imagine where the candidates will take it.

Maggie Barbieri

The Mystery of the Not So Amazin’ Mets

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I’m going to talk about collapse, but not the one that you think. Because if I started talking about that one, I may never stop, and that would not be good.

Why do we root for sports teams who break our hearts? Are we masochists? (Or is it sadists? I never get that one straight.) Or are we eternally optimistic? “This will be our big year!”

Well, as a long-suffering New York Met fan, our big year—our moment of glory, if you will—preceded my marriage to my husband by three years, was when I still had bangs, wore shoulder pads and mini-skirts to work, was eight years before my first child was born, and about thirty pounds ago. It was 1986. We were at a wedding in Massachusetts for two people who we saw maybe twice before they got married and never after. We were there when Buckner let the ball roll through his legs at first base and wondered if we would get out of Amherst alive. (It’s not all Emily Dickinson and poetry, at least not when the Sox are involved.) But we went back to the safety of our hotel room celebrated like it was 1999, as quietly as we could so that we didn’t get killed. Little did we know that that was our big break; although we went to the World Series in 2000 and faced the Yankees in a rare thing known as the “Subway Series” our hearts would be broken again. (I’m looking at you Armando Benitez.) Our hearts would be broken time and time again, starting with last year’s historic collapse (seven games ahead, seventeen to play) and followed up by this year’s kind of whimpering close-out of Shea Stadium, not exactly hallowed baseball halls, but a landmark for Met fans nonetheless.

My husband and I sat on the couch on Sunday, me suffering from a sinus infection (ever had one of those? Me either. They stink.), him suffering from Met fan syndrome, commonly called “chokus perpetualis.” We watched as they had chance after chance to tie the score, pull ahead on the scoreboard, put the whole thing to bed. Oh, but the Milwaukee Brewers had to lose, too, to make our post-season dreams a reality, so we watched the score in that game with baited breath knowing that one win and one lose would mean success or curtains, two losses or two wins would mean one more tie-breaking game.

It was not to be. But this time, instead of abject disappointment, all we felt was numb. Because you know what Mets? We’re onto you! We know you’re going to let us down. Like the guy who says he’s going to call and never does, like the box of color that promises cinnamon highlights and leaves you with spaghetti-sauce colored streaks from root to temple, like the water from the fountain of youth that tastes suspiciously like it came from our tap. We will not be had.

We turned the television off and went about our business: me, buying more tissues so that we wouldn’t run out (sinus infections require a lot of tissues—just letting you know), Jim getting another refreshment. I made dinner. But before we put the whole thing to rest, I asked him when opening day was next year for the new, beautiful, not smelly like Shea, Citi Field.

“April 13,” he said. “You watching?”

Of course I am. I’m a Met fan. I was annoyed that he even asked.

Maggie

Live a Little

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I’m actually leaving town next week and I couldn’t be more excited. It has been a long time since I actually took a business trip—actually, the reason I left my publishing job all those many years ago was to stop traveling. But be careful what you wish for; it was close to eight years before I got back on a plane and traveled anywhere and I can safely say that I’m ready to get back in the saddle. The kids are bigger, my time is more my own, and I don’t have to worry about expressing milk, making bottles, cooking five dinners in advance of my departure, or anything else regarding kith and kin before I leave. Because you know what? The family they can take care of themselves!

But those vestiges and responsibilities of motherhood don’t go away easily. The reason I’m traveling is to present, as the keynote speaker (very exciting!), to a group of English instructors in Tennessee in a town called Dickson, Tennessee. I’m fortunate to be traveling with a very good friend and former coworker who herself has three children, a dog, and a husband to take care of before she hits the road. She planned our trip and booked us into a Hampton Inn in Dickson, Tennessee, for the two nights that we’ll be away, because that was our ultimate destination, and why not? We’re women; we do the most convenient and least expensive thing when given the choice.I got to thinking. Dickson is probably lovely and probably small, which is fine; I live in lovely and small and am very happy here. But we fly into Nashville, a place I’ve never been. Why not stay by Opryland the first night, treat ourselves to a steak dinner and a couple of martinis, do a little shopping, and then head off to work the next day? I was afraid to broach the subject, because in all honesty, I’m not paying for the trip and didn’t feel like I could make demands. So, I broached lightly. Me: Would you consider meeting me at the airport on Thursday and staying at an Opryland hotel that night?

Her: (without pause) YES! I’M ON IT! WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?!

My friend immediately got on line and found the following hotel for the two of us, conveniently located next to a Nashville shopping mecca: http://www.gaylordhotels.com/gaylord-opryland/index.html. Guess who’s coming back with cowboy boots? And something with denim and rhinestones?

But this whole thing has gotten me thinking: What is it about us women that make us choose the most sensible and tried-and-true path? (Or am I alone here?) Granted, staying in Opryland and going to a honky-tonk (maybe, if we’re not too tired after the steak and martinis) is not wild and crazy, but the thought that it never occurred to either of us right off the bat gives me pause. What has happened to the two of us that we would get into a rental car, drive to our destination, work on our presentations until the late news came on, and then go to bed at a reasonable hour? What happened to living a little?

So, Stiletto Gang readers, especially those of you who have a) been to Nashville, b) live in Nashville, or c) just love the thought of being by Opryland, what do you suggest for two fancy-free middle-aged women without enough denim and rhinestones in their collective wardrobes? What should we do? (After our afternoon nap, that is.) What should we see? And just how ridiculous will cowboy looks on an East-coast mom who walks her West Highland Terrier through the center of her village every day?

Your honest assessments on all accounts, please.

Maggie

Good, Clean Fun

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I’ve given a lot of thought to the term “wardrobe malfunction,” being as I have had a few of my own over the years. Nothing approaching “nipple-gate” of that long-ago Super Bowl with Janet Jackson, but definitely your garden-variety toilet paper on the shoe problem, skirt tucked into underwear issue, blouse gaping open to display my amble bosom to everyone on the Communion line at Holy Name of Mary church, including our lovely pastor.

I was watching the Super Bowl when Justin Timberlake “accidentally” pulled at the front of Janet Jackson’s leather bustier only to expose a middle-aged breast and its accompanying parts. She didn’t look very shocked and neither did he, raising the question of whether or not this event had been planned. Frankly, our family didn’t even realize what had happened until the next day because that’s what happens when four people are fighting for a shot at the guacamole, stooping so low as to push the six-year-old out of the way because he weighs the least.

There was a great hew and cry after “nipple-gate.” But the NFL persists in having over-the-top, pyrotechnic extravaganzas whereby Tom Petty, Prince, the Stones, or some other over-the-hill, yet still somewhat relevant band performs for the massive crowds at whatever mega-stadium the teams are playing in that year. I honestly believe that most of the people in the stands are out in the hallways, waiting on line to go to the bathroom (particularly, the women), buying hot dogs, or milling about. Only the suckers who couldn’t afford the $5000.00 Super Bowl package who are stuck at home eating cold pizza and drinking warm beer are subjected to these musical spectacles.

I have a plan, though. It will be entertaining, keep people in the stands, and have relevance, particularly for some parents who have spent thousands on private music lessons. I have tried, without success, to figure out a way to communicate this plan to Roger Goodell, the general manager of the NFL, so I’m hoping he’s a faithful Stiletto Gang reader and will take this suggestion under advisement: the half-time show should consist of marching bands. Hear me out: I think that the Super Bowl halftime show should be dedicated to the best of the college marching bands in the country. Having gone to a college with no marching band, I have always felt left out, maybe because I play a mean glockenspiel and had nowhere to ply my trade. I’m a huge fan of the USC Trojans, and a host of other marching bands. I have watched the movie “Drumline” more times than I can count. It’s good, clean, wholesome fun. And it would spotlight some of the most talented kids in this country. What could be better?

The Northern half of Evelyn David and I discussed this over lunch the other day: what is it about the NFL that makes it cleave to this idea of presenting “cool” bands to the general viewing population on one Sunday a year? We decided that it was purely demographical: apparently, their thinking is that people (read: men) in the 25-49 year old demographic watch the Super Bowl. And what they want to see (besides naked women) are bands of waning popularity who either resemble their parents or them themselves. But how about appealing to a broader demographic? How about lighting the fuel of the marching band fire in some kid who’s in the 7-17 year old demographic? Because if my experience is any indication, just seeing a marching band perform in all of their synchronistic glory will definitely stoke the inner percussionist fire of more than one kid out there.

But, Evelyn and I decided, it all comes down to money. So, if you put up the band whose previously cool song now is the centerpiece of a 4×4 commercial, Joe America out there will feel that he is seeing exactly what he wants to see and getting exactly what he wants to get from his Super Bowl. Or, he doesn’t think that at all, and just resumes cutting the six-foot hero while the show is in session. The rest of us, apparently, can just stick it. Good, clean fun has gone by the wayside and the almighty dollar wins yet again.

Maggie Barbieri

The End Is Near

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The End Is Near

The last fifty pages are the hardest.

That’s what I tell myself–and know to be true–as I pass page 130 (I’m on page 132, to be exact) of an approximately 180-page, single-spaced manuscript. Because that’s what translates into a 380ish page text, which is what the Alison Bergeron mysteries usually come out as when they become a book.

Page 130 or so is pivotal because I’ve already laid the groundwork for the mystery, thrown in a few red herrings, established my secondary characters (those who aren’t Alison, Crawford, Max, Fred, or Kevin), and am barreling toward the conclusion.

The only problem is that I don’t know how the story is going to end.

This is a common problem for me, as you know if you’ve been reading The Stiletto Gang since our inception this past winter. I race, race, race to the end only to find that I have nothing left to say. Or I have too much to say and would need another hundred pages to say it. Either way, it’s not pretty. So, I’m trying to take my time and figure out what would make the most sense given the story, the characters, and the setting.

I’m much further along than I was last year at this time, which is a very good thing. Last year, as I sat writing on New Year’s Eve (my deadline), I wrote myself into a corner where all of my major characters were at a crossroads, and not in a good way. Fortunately, my agent had the good sense to tell me that the ending that I had conceived (which amounted to, essentially, “…and then they all died”) really wasn’t going to please the reading public. I went back to the drawing board and was surprised to find that I was able to end the novel in a pleasing and suspenseful way, if I just took a minute or two to figure out what would make the most sense in this imaginary world that I had created. In my haste to make my deadline, I had created an ending that would have upset a lot of people (nobody died but relationships were put to the test with some not making the grade). Had I just gone a day or two over the December 31st deadline—and face it, was St. Martin’s really going to give me grief about that—I would have been able to see the forest for the trees. Or write a convincing ending to the story.

I’m determined to not make the same mistake. So with fifty pages to go, I’m going to take my time and think about what makes the most sense. Nothing fantastical, nothing jarring—just a neat tie-up of the story and the characters’ lives, leaving open the possibility of novel #5, for which I already have a title, but not a story, which is not usually how things go. (For “Quick Study” I was down to the wire before I came up with that one and now? I love it.)

I’ve always thought of myself who works best under pressure but in the case of finishing a novel, I’m finding that pulling an all-nighter or writing down to the deadline just doesn’t cut it. So check back as I try to stick to a five-page per day writing regimen, which will allow me ample time to write and then rewrite, and then, if necessary, rewrite again before my New Year’s due date.

Today doesn’t count because I just got back from vacation. And also because after I finish writing this post, I’m going to head downstairs and continue reading Evelyn’s Murder Takes the Cake manuscript, which if I don’t finish right away, will definitely derail me from my own writing!

I’d love your feedback? What are you writing regimens? And do they work? And how soon after you write, do you revise? And have you ever written anything as ridiculous “…and then they all died”? Inquiring minds want to know.

Maggie Barbieri

Back to School!

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When did it become so complicated to go back to school?

I’m not talking about medical school, college, or even boarding school. I’m talking about fourth and ninth grades, the grades being entered by my children. It should be easy; we’ve done it before. But all things in life have become much more complicated, and going back to school is one of those things.

When you take into account the laundry list of school supplies that must be procured before the little cherubs head back to school, you may be tempted to keep them home and school them yourself with just a little blackboard and an abacus to help educated them. (Just tempted–I haven’t completely lost my mind.) Back in the day, I was given a leather messenger satchel—the likes of which I would kill for right now—with the insignia of St. Catherine’s school on the front, a new box of crayons, a few pencils and I was sent on my way. (Oh, let’s not forget the frozen bologna sandwich and equally-frozen Devil Dog that resided in my paper lunch bag. THAT combo is definitely a blog for another time.) Today’s children—namely, child #2 in the birth order—are sent home with a list of items that includes pencils, markers, highlighters, dry erase markers, pens, calculators, dictionaries, index cards, notebooks by the dozens (spiral AND marble-covered), and loose-leaf paper. AND NO TRAPPER KEEPERS!

Did you hear me? I said NO TRAPPER KEEPERS.

I didn’t even know Trapper Keepers still existed and I am still wondering why the ban. Seems like for your garden-variety disorganized fourth-grade boy this would be the ticket to order and calm. But they’re on the banned list, along with a host of other items that in my day, were considered de rigueur for school. (I think frozen bologna may be on the list, but I’m not 100% sure. Frozen Devil Dogs definitely are; if thrown, they could blind another child.)

I went to a large store yesterday whose logo is a bulls-eye and did hand-to-hand combat with the other harried mothers in the “Back to School” aisles. One mother was talking so loudly to her children (you know the type—she talks loud, trying to either a) show how good a mother she is by buying little Freddie and Flossie everything they want or b) how she is more frazzled than everyone else or c) enlist you in her running monologue on her life) that it occurred to me to scream “Stop talking! I can’t think! I can’t find low-odor dry erase markers with your constant chatter! Can’t you see that?” But I’m way too civilized for that, so instead, I walked through the giant circular area with its giant cardboard storage containers of supplies muttering to myself like a crazy person. Which I suppose I am.

Child #1, who is going into high school, needs fewer supplies. However, she plays field hockey, and Monday was the first practice. She left in the morning after procuring two used mouth guards from her brother for both herself and her best friend, A. (who couldn’t find a previously-used one in her own brother’s room), boiled them to get his cooties off and headed over to practice. She wasn’t gone ten minutes when I received a phone call.

D.: Hi, Mom? I need that medical form and permission slip or else I can’t play.

Me: (Disgusted and exasperated having just gotten to work in her home office) What? What permission slip? Where is it?

D.: In my room.

After doing a complete search of her room and not turning up the form, I called her back.

Me: Not there.

D.: OK. You have to go to the high school, get a new one, fill it out, and bring it to me at the field. Otherwise, I WON’T BE ABLE TO PLAY!

Me: (More disgusted and exasperated than earlier) I’ll be there in ten minutes.

I left my office, went to the high school, tracked down the form and with another exasperated father, began to fill it out on a narrow slice of counter. When I got to the signature part, it all started to look very familiar.

Me: Hey! I already filled this out!

Dad #1: (perusing form more carefully) Me, too!

Me: And I already handed it in!

Dad #1: Me, too!

Me: Then why are we filling it out again?!

Dad #1: Because they said we had to!

I drove over to the field in a fit of pique and confronted 1) several Moms in mini-vans throwing the form out the window at their own daughter, 2) a few dejected field hockey players whose Mom’s hadn’t arrived yet, and 3) two girls who were vacating the field completely because their mothers weren’t home to re-fill out the forms and bring them over to them. To her credit, as I flung the form out the window, my daughter called after me, “I love you!” which unless you’re cruel and cold-hearted, will assuage any feelings of ill will.

We’re almost there, though. I am missing three marble notebooks and one package of multi-colored index cards and then they’ll both be set to go. This morning, I gave child #1 a blank check—which I’ve decided is really my name…hello, my name is Blank. Blank Check—to purchase $93.00 worth of “practice” field hockey gear, which in my day, were called “tee-shirts” and “shorts”.

They couldn’t possibly hit me up for anything else before they go back, could they?

Maggie Barbieri

My Literary Best Friend

/in /by

Distant father…housekeeper slash surrogate mother…pretty-boy boyfriend (according to the northern half of Evelyn David)…a trio of interesting girl friends, one a tomboy, one an obsessive eater, one a giant fraidy-cat…these are my adult recollections and interpretations of my favorite sleuth and heroine, Nancy Drew.

But when I was a child? She was literary gold. I had received a few of the 1959 editions from my older, goddess-like next-door neighbor, Maureen. If Maureen recommended the Nancy Drew books, then by golly, I was going to read each and every one of them. (And for proof of Maureen’s regalness, you need only know her nickname from her five brothers: “Maureen the Queen.” They shared one bedroom in the small Cape Cod next door; Maureen had the other bedroom, complete with canopy bed. But I digress.) She dropped off the books, now too old to enjoy them, and told me to start with “The Secret of the Old Clock.” I think I was about nine at the time. I finished the book and I was hooked.

A couple of thing struck me about Nancy:

1. Nancy drove a roadster. A what? Figuring out that it was just a sporty car didn’t take too long but I wondered why Carolyn Keene didn’t just call it a car. Then I grew up and became a mystery writer myself and realized that there are just so many ways to say that so-and-so “got in her car and drove away.” I’m trying to figure out a way for Alison Bergeron to refer to her car as a roadster but I haven’t been able to quite work that out yet.

2. Nancy eschewed all things in bad taste. Remember when those irascible Topham sisters were mean to the sales girls at the department store? Or when the aforementioned sales girl gossiped to Nancy about Josiah Crowley? Nancy looked down on both. Me? I am never mean to sales girls but do enjoy idle gossip. Alison Bergeron, for one, wouldn’t be able to solve mysteries without idle gossip, conjecture, or jumping to conclusions. Nancy frowned on all three.

3. Nancy loved a bargain. When one of those infernal Topham sisters ripped one of the dresses in the department store, Nancy asked for a discount. And got it! 50% off the retail price! That girl had some shopping cojones.

4. Nancy pretended that her father was fascinating. Sure, it was one way to get the information she so needed to solve the case but, boy, could this girl massage a man’s ego or what? Just read one passage of her dining with good old Carson Drew and you can see why he was putty in her hands. And why he gave her access to everything she needed to solve her cases.

5. Nancy was multi-talented. She possessed basic first aid skills, was a strong swimmer, could sail, and considered herself a “dog tender” (see The Bungalow Mystery). Nancy had an impressive intellect and a sharp wit. Was it the function of hanging around her widowed father and middle-aged housekeeper or was she just born that way? I never could figure that out.

6. Nancy is true to her friends. She never tells her female friend, George Fayne, to knock it off and go by her given name, Georgia, nor does she tell plump friend, Bess Marvin, to lay off Hannah’s scones and jam. Helen Corning, who appears in the first book in the series and then, later on, takes an extended jaunt to Europe, doesn’t have the stomach for sleuthing but Nancy never brings it up. Just imagine those girls on “The Hills” being so accepting of their compadres. Nancy is the alpha girl but never lets it show, never lauds it over her posse. She’s the smartest, the hippest, and wears all of these characteristics with grace and class.

Maureen the Queen and I discussed every Nancy Drew that she had given me after I had read them once. And when I was done, I read them again, because this was in the days before the ubiquitous Barnes and Noble or the easy access that Amazon affords us modern-day folk. My 1959 editions are dog-eared, a little water-logged (the flood of ’73 that soaked everything in our basement saw to that), and yellowed from age. But the memories that I get when I crack open one of the three that are left on my bookshelf cannot be described, even by me, the writer. It’s memories of my older and cooler friend, Maureen, it’s memories of finding a girl to whom I could relate, it’s memories of a time gone by when we played outside from dusk ‘til dawn, when we read books over and over again and committed them to memory.

So her father was distant, she was raised by a housekeeper, and she had a curious gaggle of friends. Didn’t matter and never will. Nancy Drew was and always will be my literary best friend.

Maggie Barbieri