Tag Archive for: Maggie Barbieri

Perspective

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First, I want to take moment to remember the people of Joplin, Missouri. I can’t imagine anything more horrifying than being trapped in a store while a tornado bears down, knowing that the store will probably collapse and bury you alive. The devastation is vast, the damage unthinkable. So, sending good thoughts and prayers to the people who are trying to put their lives together, one day at a time.

I am reflecting on this because I just passed the sixth anniversary of my original melanoma diagnosis. (There would be another, more serious diagnosis, the following year after I had achieved NED—no evidence of disease—just two months prior.) This past Friday, the day I had been diagnosed all those years before, was the same as every other here: get up, make lunches, walk dog, feed cat, do laundry, find lacrosse stick, carpool, grocery shop, walk dog again, feed cat again, make dinner. In between all of that, I juggled the management of twenty books for my day job, all of which need to go to the printer by this Friday at the latest. All were in various stages of being finished. Finally, after everything was cleaned up, I poured a glass of wine for me and my husband and sat down. I then proceeded to belly ache about my day and how busy I had been, how tired I was. He matched me, complaint for complaint. After we had finished, I looked over at the calendar to see when the next Little League game was and saw the date: May 20th.

I had a couple of reactions. The first was awe that I had not counted down to the day as I had in previous years. I was making progress on that account! The second was that I needed to shut my freaking pie hole.

I looked at Jim and said, “Six years ago today, I was an unpublished writer with a Stage IIIc diagnosis. Today, I have five books in print and I’m healthy.” I clinked my glass against his. “Here’s to complaining about the little things.”

When I was dealing with my cancer situation, people would say things to me like “It really puts everything in perspective, huh?” or “I bet you’ll never complain about the little things again, right?” Wrong. I didn’t need perspective then or now. I had and have it; I know how lucky we are. And being able to complain about the little things, the stupid stuff, means that you don’t have anything big to complain about. To me, focusing on the little problems that we all deal with on a day to day basis—standing in a line we consider too long, driving behind a car we think is going too slow, having an appliance break down—is a gift. It means we’re human and we can focus on the small stuff.

One of the best days in the last six years occurred when my kids—who normally get along swimmingly—had a knock-down, drag-out fight over something ridiculous. There was screaming, yelling, and eventually crying. There was Mom “taking sides,” according to one kid, and blame placing. Eventually, there were hugs and resolution. And all of it was music to my ears. When you go through something like an illness, or god forbid, a death, things change. The way people behave around you changes. Your kids stop fighting because they don’t want to upset you. They think you’ve got enough on your plate and are wise enough to settle their disagreements in private, away from you. So the way you know that things are normal again is when they have a knock-down, drag-out fight in your presence, and expect you to make everything right again.

All of that, to me, is perspective.

Today, take a moment and thank the universe for all of the petty annoyances that make up your day. I have already given thanks for the dishwasher that really doesn’t wash dishes, the dog who refuses to do anything in the rain, and the manuscript that won’t edit itself, no matter how long I stare at it.

Blessings to all of our Stiletto faithful and to anyone else dealing with the things that life can throw at you and that you have to learn to deal with without any preparation whatsoever.

Oh, and May is Skin Cancer Awareness month! Wear your sunscreen, even if it’s cloudy!

Maggie Barbieri

Dude, It’s Ok!

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As someone who has been involved in youth sports in a variety of capacities, as parent, as coach, and as a general volunteer, I can tell you that we are lucky to live in a Village where teamwork is stressed and sportsmanship is king.  This past weekend, as a matter of fact, I took child #2 to his lacrosse game at a visiting field and was thrilled to see both teams play hard but in a manner that was considerate of each other. Case in point:  my son, the goalie, blocked a shot.  WITH HIS THIGH.  He went down to his knees, his helmeted head on the ground and lay still for a few minutes to wait for the pain to subside.  (And yes, it took every ounce of self control I had not to get up, run across the field, arms flailing, yelling “Honey?  Are you ok?”)  Finally, he got up, a little shaky, and returned to goal.  But before play could resume, the kid on the other team–the one who had taken the shot that had felled my son–walked over and put his arm around my son’s shoulder.  Their conversation went something like this:

“Dude.  I’m sorry.”

“Dude.  It’s ok.”

They are men of few words but the words spoken are enough.

Later, when the other goalie was carried off the field by his coach, having been hit so many times in the knee that he could no longer stand–yes, lacrosse is a rough game–all of the kids on the field, from both teams, went down on one knee and applauded his efforts in goal, inquiring after the game if he was ok.

I admit, I had brought the Sunday papers to the game so I could read during the numerous breaks in the action.  And there are a lot in lacrosse.  I turned to the back page of the paper where sports are reported and saw a headline about the New York Yankees’ catcher, Jorge Posada.  Posada is a long-time member of the team, a crucial part of the Yankee dynasty, but is now 39 years old and a little brittle.  All those years behind the plate, crouched down, take a toll on one’s body.  So this year, he has been relegated to designated hitter status mostly, coming out and hitting in the line up for the pitcher.

Until this past weekend.

It was a crucial three-game series against the Red Sox, the Yankees’ chief nemesis.  (Let me state right here that I am not–and was never–a Yankee fan.  However, I do not go so far as to root for the Red Sox.  I have my limits.)  Posada, hitting in the .160 range–which is bad for those of you who don’t follow baseball–was dropped by manager Joe Girardi to the number nine spot in the batting order.  Back in the day, Posada hit somewhere in the three-to-six range of the line up, so nine was definitely a demotion.  But what Posada did next stunned everyone.

He refused to play.

Thinking that the number nine spot in the line up was some kind of assault on his manhood and pride, he chose instead to bench himself.  He basically took his bat and his ball and went home.

Suffice it to say, this created a stir in the New York sports world.  The manager commented.  The general manager commented.  His teammates commented and some even defended him.  His wife took to Twitter to say that he had a bad back and wasn’t a bad sport.  He later confessed that he didn’t have a bad back, was indeed a bad sport, apologized, and said it would never happen again.

But it happened in the first place and that’s what matters.

I follow New York sports very closely and listen to sports radio a fair amount so I can tell you that in general, Jorge Posada is a nice, upstanding guy.  He does a lot of charity work.  He keeps his nose clean. He has a tight-knit family.  I’m inclined to give him a past because this was clearly an aberration and not his usual classy way of handling things.  But what went wrong in his brain this past weekend to make him do such a bone-headed thing?  I guess it’s pride.  It got the better of him.

The kids and I talked about this and I was happy that neither thought that what he had done was justified. The whole situation was interesting to me, however, because in one weekend, I saw more class and guts from a group of twelve-year-olds on a muddy lacrosse field than from a guy who makes fourteen million dollars a year to go to bat four times in one game, five if the game goes into extra innings.

So this post has nothing to do with writing and I don’t have a question to pose but I wanted to take the opportunity to give a shout-out to the kids out there who put sportsmanship before pride and play hard each and every game.  For free.

Maggie Barbieri

Paddling Against the Current

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This past Sunday was a beautiful day in the Northeast, so Jim and I strapped the kayaks onto the roof of the car and headed down to the River. This wasn’t the kayaks maiden voyage of the season; child #1 and the French exchange student had kayaked last weekend and christened them for the new season. We hopped in and paddled away from the shore, the water calm and the wind barely blowing. The day had the perfect conditions for kayaking.

About five hundred feet into our trip, I started complaining. My life vest was riding up. My paddle didn’t seem to be working correctly. Someone had changed the foot pedals in the boat and my feet were too far away from them. Jim calmly told me how to adjust everything and we started out again but this time, I noticed the underlying problem, the one that was making the beginning of the journey so hard.

We were paddling against the current.

Makes sense. The river we kayak on feeds into the great Hudson River, so the water is going to flow in that direction. I had forgotten that for the first part of the trip, you were paddling upstream, as it were, going against the flow, which made making any headway more difficult. When we reached the turnaround, a little stretch with a copse of wild overgrown trees smack in the middle of the water, I put my paddle down. There was no need for it. The current carried us through this stretch, our boats moving silently and gracefully along.

See where I’m going here?

Sometimes life feels like being in a forty-pound kayak paddling upstream. Other times, it feels like you are on autopilot, being carried along by the gentle current, the one that leads you in the right direction. I think this analogy applies even more so to writing. You jump into your work-in-progress and….thunk. No where to go. Paddling upstream. Your vest is too tight. Nothing is working.

I always tell my kids that it takes way more energy to be negative than it does to be positive. I’m trying to bring this approach to life in general, and writing, more specifically. Paddling upstream on your book is a waste of time. So, show of hands: who likes to waste time out there? (I’m looking…I don’t see anyone.) I thought about what I do when I hit a bad patch in the plot or a character does something that doesn’t make any sense to me or I get a case of your garden-variety writer’s block. Well, in kayaking terms, sometimes I whine that my vest is too tight. Sometimes I blame it on the paddle. And sometimes I just row back to shore and rest a while until I realize what’s been stumping me. It may be as easy as starting over, putting my character in a different situation. I may have him or her run into someone and start a conversation. I might have them make a phone call. I’ll do anything to get to that tranquil place where I let it all go and let the current—or in this case, my imagination—guide me back to shore.

I may have stretched this analogy thinner than a taut rubber band and for that, I apologize. Sometimes, though, things just hit me in the face and make me wonder if other people experience the same sorts of issues in life and in writing.

What do you do when you find yourself going against the current or paddling upstream in either your writing or life in general?

Maggie Barbieri

Live Like There Is No One Watching

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I had the pleasure of spending the weekend in Bethesda, Maryland, at the Malice Domestic convention this past weekend, where authors and fans alike gather to talk books, meet each other, and yes, down a glass of wine or two.  It was fantastic.  I got to meet and see people who I have only known on the “interwebs,” like the amazing Joelle Charbonneau (author of the Skating Rink mysteries and a new series from Berkley Prime Crime), the gorgeous Avery Ames (author of the Cheese Shop mysteries and now an Agatha winner!), and the lovely Ellen Byrreum (author of the Crimes of Fashion mysteries featuring sleuth Lacey Smithsonian).  As we have all written about in various ways, writing is a solitary and sometimes lonely undertaking, so seeing people who do what you do—and others who enjoy what you do—is an uplifting experience.
I participated in a panel on Sunday with the aforementioned Joelle, Wendy Lyn Watson, and Donna Andrews, moderated by librarian and fan Patti Ruocco.  The theme of our panel was mysteries set in academia and the audience was terrific.  During the question and answer period, only one person had a question and it was regular Malice attendee Doris Ann Norris, who asked if the lovely and talented Joelle—a professional singer and actress—could sing us a tune.  Joelle was at a loss, not sure what to sing.  I asked her to sing my favorite show tune of all time and she obliged, breaking into “My Favorite Things” from THE SOUND OF MUSIC.
When I say the girl can sing, I mean THAT GIRL CAN SING.  But that didn’t stop a number of people in the room, myself included, from joining in lustily.  By the end of her rendition, the entire room had joined in, with author Vicki Doudera, jumping up and throwing her arms out wide a la Julie Andrews.  When I had entered the room earlier, I was tired and looking forward to going home.  When the panel ended, I was exhilarated and wishing I could stay longer.
It reminded me of the old adage to live like no one is looking.  When we let down our walls, and give in to the joy of a particular moment, happiness follows.  I was also reminded of this just this morning as I took a long walk along the Hudson River with my good pal, Annie.  Annie is a preschool teacher who had the incredible idea to introduce her class to the great masters of the art world.  Using prints, she showed her students—most under the age of five—Monets, Van Goghs, Matisses, and a host of other painters so that they could figure out which ones “spoke” to them.  After they spent some time learning about the great masters, they were to use any medium they wanted—oils, watercolors, or crayons—and “paint” a picture based on their favorite artist or one of his works.  She said that the art that was created was astounding and as a result, she decided to do an “art show” during the preschool’s annual golf outing/fundraiser this past weekend.
The art was put on display in a large room with windows facing a bucolic setting in the Hudson Valley.  Annie was admiring the art when the grandmother of one of her students, an artist herself, approached her, clearly moved by the work the preschoolers had done.  She remarked that artists strive to keep a childlike perspective because in that perspective is a freedom that one loses as one gets older.  Artists, like all of us, become more inhibited, or more constrained, or more cautious in the risks they take.  Children just DO.  They let it fly.  And the results are what artists strive for and chase throughout their adult lives but have long before let go.
As a person, I’m pretty uninhibited, as you have probably gleaned from previous posts.  If I feel like dancing, I do.  If I want to break into song, I will.  But I do have my doubts and my inhibitions and sometimes that spills over into my writing.   My first draft has to be perfect or I doubt myself.  I parse every word of a previous paragraph before proceeding with a new thought.  I don’t let it fly, like I should.  So I’m going to channel the experience of singing a show tune in front of a group of forty people and think about a child with a set of watercolors imitating a Vermeer when I sit down to write.  Writing should be a combination of joy and freedom, not inhibition and caution.
Now if I could just convince myself of that!  What do you do to make yourself do the things that should bring you joy but that may not, given your own inhibitions?
Maggie Barbieri

It’s French to Me

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There came a time, around my junior year of college, when I realized I had enough credits to qualify as a French minor to go along with my English major.  There also came a time, when I realized I really, really liked this guy in my French pronunciation class, that if I continued to take more French courses, I could graduate with a double major, French/English.

That doesn’t mean I can actually speak French.
The cute guy eventually became my tutor, and then my husband.  My mother often tells him how much money he owes her because, dag nabbit, if she sent a kid to college to get a French major, said kid ought to be able to at least order off a French menu with a modicum of confidence.
As my French teacher, the wonderful Madame Marzi, once said to me, “You have a wonderful accent.  If only I could teach you to actually speak French.”
Why do I bring this up?  Well, as luck would have it, tonight, we welcome a French exchange student to our home for ten days.  She is visiting us from a coastal town in France—the same one that my husband visited when he was part of the first group to partake in this exchange thirty years ago.  We are all very excited:  my daughter, because the young woman visiting us is the same age as she is and seems to have the same interests; my son, well, because he’s twelve and what twelve-year-old wouldn’t want a female French exchange student living in his house?; my husband because he is thrilled that the program is still in existence and thriving; and me…
Well, I’m not so sure.  See, the French exchange student will be spending most of her free time—the time when she’s not at school with my daughter or visiting New York City—with me.  The French major.  The woman who once told her children, in French, while on vacation in Quebec, that we would soon visit the factory to make cheese.  (What I meant to say is that we would soon visit the pool to go swimming.  Trust me, a lot of these vocabulary words sound the same.)
The goal of her visit is to speak as much English as possible, something that will be necessitated by spending time with me, the non-French speaker.  I am hoping that her English will be better than my French, but based on our meeting with last year’s participants, it’s a virtual crapshoot.  Some students have more English than others and are very enthusiastic about using the language, while others have a rudimentary knowledge of English and prefer to speak their native tongue. 
Regardless, it should be interesting.
And fodder for future books.
At the very least, it has gotten my family on board with cleaning.  She will be staying in my son’s room, which has become the de facto guest room for all visitors.  He remarked the other day that his room never looked so clean, and that he liked it that way.  (We’ll see how long that lasts.)  I spent the better part of Saturday at the laundromat washing blankets, comforters and sheets so all bedding in our house is nice and fresh.  I scrubbed the bathroom tile and grout so that the room feels new again.  If nothing else, her visit has prompted us to make this place spic and span.
Stayed tuned for updates on her visit and for the misadventures of “Maggie, the Only Diploma-ed French Major Who Can’t Speak French.”
Maggie Barbieri

The Royal Wedding

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Do you remember where you were when Charles and Diana got married?
I do.
I was on Cape Cod with my good friend, Kathy, staying at a house her parents had rented.  She and I, great friend all through high school, would be heading off to college in the coming weeks, she to Georgetown, me to Manhattan College, and the summer was bittersweet.  On one of our last days on the Cape, we set our alarms for four o’clock in the morning because the event that we had been looking forward to all summer—the royal wedding—was set to begin.
It had to be pretty special to get two teenaged girls up from their endless slumbers.
I remember that in order to see the wedding and remain in bed, we had to sleep on a creaky pullout bed in a drafty added-on room because that was the only room in the house that had both a television and a bed.  I remember that once four a.m. came, Kathy seemed less enthusiastic about the wedding than she had the night before when we were roaming Chatham, looking for a good time and only finding a plethora of fudge and tee shirt shops.  I, however, roused myself, not wanting to miss a minute of the Charles and Diana nuptials.
I remember, even though it was the early ‘80s and fashion was decidedly different than it is now, not liking Diana’s dress, thinking that it made the twenty-year-old look dowdy and frumpy.  I also remember laughing when she flubbed his many-parted name in the vows.  I remember the beautiful cathedral, the gorgeous music, and the fanfare.  I tried to envision what it would take, however, to find Charles remotely attractive, his prince-hood aside.
Diana wasn’t much older than I was at that time, yet being married was the last thing on my mind.  I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to get married in front of the entire world to a man older than I and from a very different station in life.
Well, we all know how it ended and yes, I was one of those people who were truly heartbroken when I found out that Princess Diana had died tragically in a car accident.  For many women of my generation, she held a special place in our hearts.  She was buried on the same day that my sister’s bridal shower was to take place and I remember setting the tables at the restaurant where it was held, crying as a television in the background showed her funeral, her sons walking behind her casket.
I have a 17-year-old now and not once have I heard her mention the impending nuptials of Diana’s son, William, and the lovely Kate Middleton, a woman older, and probably a little wiser, than her late mother-in-law was before her own wedding.  What was it about the royal wedding of thirty years ago that captured so many hearts?  And what is it about this one that seems so predictable and not all that special? 
It’s hard to know.  I suspect that with the media being what it is today, we know a lot about what’s to come.  We are also going to witness the marriage of two people who have been living together for a while and who seem like a very stable, familiar kind of couple, a couple we could know.  There’s not a lot of mystery here like there was thirty years ago.  We’ve watched Will grow up and we’ve charted his relationship with Kate, having been with him almost every step of the way.  Yes, there may come a time when he could be king, but a lot of things would have to happen first.
I think maybe, too, the bloom is off the royal rose.  In the last thirty years, we’ve witnessed weddings, divorces, infidelities, scandals, and a lot of heartache.  The mystery and romance of a royal wedding just doesn’t exist anymore; we’re far too jaded.  We know them too well.  We know that in a lot of ways, many of them are just like us.
I’ll still be setting my alarm on April 29th to watch the royal wedding, however.  What about you?
Maggie Barbieri

To Tweet or not to Tweet?

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If we’re friend’s on Facebook—and if we’re not, we should be!—you probably have been following the saga of my walking pneumonia.  Long story short, I started feeling crummy about a week ago, but as is my way, I figured I could power through it, working a regular day, burning the candle at both ends, and just generally ignoring it.  My doctor confirmed what my mother (not a doctor, by the way) had diagnosed:  I had walking pneumonia.  She (the doctor, not my mother) was seeing lots of cases of it in her practice and it was basically characterized by a persistent, non-productive cough, fatigue, chills, and congestion.  Check, check, check, and double check.

Upon getting the diagnosis, I collapsed into bed like a house of cards, where I have been ever since.  I can’t remember the last time I stayed in my pajamas for days on end; even when I was undergoing treatment for cancer, I got up every day, got dressed, and combed what little hair I had.  With this illness, though, I figured my body was telling me something and it wasn’t good. I needed to take it easy.

Fortunately, I just bought myself a MacBook and the Barbieris, for the first time in the new millennium, are wireless, so I could keep up with the goings on in the world through my trusty computer.  On a lark, I started following Twitter more closely, if only to see what all the rage was.  I even tweeted a few times myself, things along the lines of “I don’t feel good” and “someone bring me pretzels” but I only have a few followers and no one really seemed to care as evidenced by the fact that nobody brought me pretzels.  But after following a bunch of people for several days, I discovered that tweeters fall into a few different categories, some of which I will describe for you here.

1.   The oversharer:  This is the person who shares intimate details about their life on Twitter.  I find these people oddly fascinating.  I know that social media has wrought an entire generation of oversharers, but it is still like rubbernecking to me to learn what person x said to their child about their homework, or how their husband pleases them like no other.  Keep it in the bedroom, people! 
2.   The crankypants:  This is the person who has an opinion on everything and it is generally contrary to popular opinion.  This is also the person who tweets about what he or she thinks other people should or should not be tweeting about, e.g. promotion of their books.  I follow “Very Famous Author (heretofore known as VFA)” and she does a lot of this.  As one of my kids would say, “I’m sorry, but I think this is still a free country.”  VFA rails against other people’s tweets and again, while I find this oddly fascinating, I wonder if there is a better use of VFA’s time than telling people what they should and should not tweet about, bedroom behavior notwithstanding.
3.   The feuder:  This is the person who takes to a social media platform to pick a fight with someone with whom they have a disagreement.  While again, fascinating (sorry, it’s the antibiotics; I’ve run out of adjectives), I wonder what the purpose of this is.  I have strong feelings on a variety of topics, but no one that I follow on Twitter could make me so angry that I would take an opposing stance on something and take the argument public.  Is this a function of our new, completely transparent world or just an indictment of one’s own level of personal aggression?  I’m not sure, but I do know that taking someone to task for an opinion expressed on Twitter seems cheap.  Call them up.  Have a discussion.  Express yourself in more than 140 characters to get your alternating point across.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  And then, call it a day.
What about you, Stiletto friends?  Any serious tweeters out there?  Who do you like to follow and why?  And what Twitter behavior makes you want to rip your hair out?
Maggie Barbieri

When Technology Goes Bad

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I was going to write about my building excitement for the royal wedding, but will save that for next week. Today, instead, I write about the horrors of technology and wonder how you, Stiletto faithful, deal with dead laptops, frozen flash drives, and assorted other problems that befall the innocent in this technology-enabled world.

It all started last week when my trusty PC, the one that I’ve been working on for over six years, turned itself off and wouldn’t turn back on.  It was as if it was saying “go on without me; I’m just so very tired,” while I was screaming, “Don’t you die on me, PC!”  (Did I mention that I don’t back up my documents as a general rule?)  I walked past it several times during the day, disconsolately pushing the “on” button to see if it would come back, even just for one day so I could gather some of the work I had been doing.  No chance.

I did what anyone would do and called my friend, Susan, the baker, to lament my problem.

“No problem!” she said cheerfully.  “My cousin is a tech wizard!”

And indeed he was.  I brought him the laptop, he recovered everything and also installed all sorts of new bells and whistles so that the thing runs like a top.  And there was joy across the land.

While I was waiting for the PC to return, I decided to buy a Mac, having had my fill of computer-killing viruses.  I had heard wonderful things about Macs and decided that the time was nigh. I bought a fun, little 13″ laptop (the 17″ was $600 more and I didn’t want to spend the extra money).  While I was waiting for the new modem so that I could install the wireless internet capabilities on the Mac, I used the kids’ computer, otherwise known as “Old Faithful.”  Old Faithful has served us well, now being into its second decade.  Sure, it’s slow, but it’s dependable.  I’m working on a new book and made some headway, not having the distraction of the internet to help me veer off course.  I had made great headway, and had twenty pages written…some of them even good.  Today, after catching up on work, I plugged in the flash drive, the new book being the only thing that I had backed up, hoping to write another five or so pages.

The flash drive was dead.  It won’t load, it won’t open, and none of the documents seem to be on there anymore.

I went through several stages of grief, but thankfully, never broke down as completely as I wanted to.  It’s just twenty pages, right?  They might not be any good, yes?  It may be the writing gods’ way of telling me to start again.

I’m not buying any of it.  The flash drive is now in the capable hands of Susan the baker’s cousin who hopefully, will work his magic.

In the meantime, if you hear the rantings of a mad woman in your neck of the woods, it is just I wondering why we need all of this stuff in the first place when paper and pen served us just fine for centuries.

Horror stories, please.  They will make me feel better.  And the ones with happy endings will really make my day.

Maggie Barbieri

Beauty is in the Eye of…Photoshop?

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If you pick up the April issue of Good Housekeeping—the one with Dr. Oz on the cover—and turn to page 59, you’ll find a full-page photo of yours truly.

Or will you?

My 11-year-old’s first reaction? “Mom, this doesn’t look anything like you.”

I beg to differ. It looks exactly like me. Only better.

Let’s backtrack. A few months ago, I was contacted by Good Housekeeping to be interviewed about a powerful, and effective, new cancer drug. It was an immunotherapy and the one that I had taken. It was the one that saved my life, because having been diagnosed with Stage IV melanoma in 2006, my chances for survival were slim to none. I entered a clinical trial for a drug called tremelimumab (say that three times fast) and had an immediate, positive response to it. My tumors, which numbered in the hundreds, began to shrink and fade (many were bluish and on my skin) and were eventually eradicated. It was nothing short of a miracle.

The cousin of this drug, ipilimumab, will be approved by the FDA for use in metastatic melanoma patients this Friday and believe me, this is an occasion for celebration. Now, there is hope for people who once had little hope for survival.

But back to the photo. After I was interviewed and the story was edited, I was asked for some photos of me and the family. Trouble is, we don’t have too many photos, so the Barbieri family started photographing each other, with limited success. Here is an example of one of the photos we took and submitted to GH.


After sending the editor at the magazine a bunch of photos, she called and said that they would be sending a photographer to me to take a photo. Little did I know what that entailed.

The photographer was a wonderful guy named Rob Howard who couldn’t be nicer or more respected and well-known in the photography world. He was accompanied by his lovely wife, Lisa, a professional hair and makeup stylist named Birgitte, and the shoot stylist from Good Housekeeping, Bill. Of course, because they were coming from a housekeeping magazine, I vacuumed, dusted, and had my friend, Susan (from the wonderful Baked by Susan—“like” it on FB!) make scones. They were duly impressed.

Until they moved my couch.

As I sat getting my hair and makeup done by Birgitte, I heard Rob, who has photographed kings and OPRAH (!) ask, “Does Maggie have a vacuum?” At his uttering of those words, my hair, formerly poufed and teased, fell just a little bit. Why, oh why, Rob Howard, did you have to move the one piece of furniture that I haven’t vacuumed behind since the Clinton administration?

Once the house really was clean, thanks to Rob and his team, it was time for my photos. Three hours and about two hundred photos later, they had their shot. And here is it.


Yes, I am a little airbrushed, and no, my teeth aren’t that white, but I think it’s a pretty good representation of my overall look. The one thing that makes me very happy is that it is a photo of my laughing, which really reflects my overall outlook on life and the spirit of this article. I was nervous that my joy at overcoming a diagnosis like Stage IV melanoma wouldn’t be adequately expressed, but it is. And this photo really illustrates the happiness I feel every day that I am still here to discuss something that at one point, had a very questionable outcome.

I hope you’ll pick up this month’s issue of Good Housekeeping magazine even if it’s only to see how clean my house is.

Maggie Barbieri

A Glass Half Full

/in /by

With so much death and destruction in the world, I look to find any glimmer of hope in the news of the day.

I found it last week in the New York Times where an article discussed a recent study which reported a 20% rise in cancer survivors in the United States. I, for one, was thrilled. More people surviving cancer is a good thing, right?

I thought so until I posted this new, thrilling fact on my Facebook account and found that at least one person didn’t think it was very positive. Instead, that person wondered if that statistic was inflated because more people are being diagnosed with cancer. This person, a “friend,” went on to wonder if this statistic was even legitimate. “What about all the people who get diagnosed every day?” he wondered.

I was dumbfounded, as were several of my other Facebook friends. Several of them immediately commented, taking this person to task for 1) his insensitivity and 2) his glass-half-empty view of the world. He recanted, obviously chastened, and removed the offending comment from my post. He didn’t know that I was a cancer survivor, not that that really mattered in responding to my update.

To me, there was no way you could read the NY Times piece and see any downside. If there are more diagnoses, it still means that there are more survivors. And in my opinion, that can only be positive.

It just brings me back to that eternal question of just how optimistic can we be? Should we be? There is a lot of talk these days about optimism, the so-called “happiness” gene, one’s emotional outlook, all of the above and their relationship to physical health. Maybe my Facebook friend was having a bad day, or maybe he just isn’t optimistic. Maybe he knows someone who has just been diagnosed and isn’t seeing any value to a study. Hard to tell. But I always find it interesting to see how two people can take the same information or circumstance and look at it in an entirely different way. It makes me wonder: is it the way we’re wired or a choice we make?

I don’t think we’ll ever know for certain, but the latest issue of Oprah magazine does tackle the question of how beneficial positive thinking actually is, citing a study that says that cancer patients who explored their feelings about their illness and talked about it with others had to schedule fewer visits to their doctor. It goes on to say that there are a few things within our control like the quality of our diet and our commitment to exercise, but also our level of optimism. So it is something we can control and something we can unleash when necessary, like when we’re faced with a dire diagnosis and few options.

There are a few secrets to living an optimistic life including expressing yourself, meditating, seeking help if necessary, using your friends to help you, and looking on the bright side. The idea though, expressed simply, is that it is within our power to choose an optimistic mind-set and that we can practice to train ourselves to see things in a positive fashion rather than going negative at the outset.

Sure, we all fall victim to the doubts and the negativity, but I find it interesting that by doing a few simple things, like naming your adversity and identifying the consequences, to name a few, we can train ourselves to look at the bright side.

If you read the Stiletto Gang with any regularity—and because I’m a positive thinker, I’m going to assume that you do!—you know that optimism and positive thinking are two things that I think about and write about a lot. As a result, I was interested to take the quiz in the magazine which would score my level of optimism. I was happy to find that from my perspective,” things usually work out.” I am not “highly aware of potential disappointments,” nor do I “plan for the worst.” Optimism and its effect on health, according to the article is now a “scientific certainty” so in a world gone mad, we have the power to control how we feel and to focus on what’s good despite being constantly bombarded with the notion that the worst is yet to come.

With all that is going on in the world, though, how do you, our Stiletto faithful, keep a positive outlook?

Maggie Barbieri